


After the War

by Aelys_Althea



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Ending, Canonical Character Death, Changing Decisions, F/M, Future Lives and Careers, Gen, Heartbreak, Loss, M/M, Moving On, Not Epilogue Compliant, Not Harry Potter and the Cursed Child Compliant, POV Multiple, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Potential Addition To Tags, Work In Progress, Yet also connected, episodic, multiple characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-09
Updated: 2017-11-14
Packaged: 2018-12-13 05:39:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 56,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11753196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aelys_Althea/pseuds/Aelys_Althea
Summary: The war left its mark. The pain and loss, the relief and exhaustion, was felt by all. And yet even with its passing, the echoing shadow of its passing remained to breath its unshakeable presence upon those who survived.This is their story - the story of those left behind to fight in a war that hadn't truly ended and likely never would.





	1. The Others

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This story, and particularly this chapter, deals with canonical death and passing away as a general theme. If you think this might be triggering, please approach with caution. I really, really don't want to upset anyone.

For a moment, the entire world froze.

A boy stood, and a monster fell.

For a moment, that long, long moment, disbelief, hope, and fear battled for precedence. And then that disbelieving hopeful fear erupted.

Throughout the Great Hall, voices tore through the air in triumph. Wails of the defeated, the loyal followers of the Dark Lord, were smothered by cries of joy, of freedom, of promise. That joyful, liberated promise was met by sobs – sadness for what was lost, for those who'd fallen, for all that had been stolen and for a world torn from its blanket of security and bared cold and shaking and exposed to the threat that had been Lord Voldemort.

But no longer.

As the sea of survivors erupted, as shouts of children and exhausted groans of fighters and defenders intermingled with exhalations of sharp relief, that blanket settled just briefly. At first hesitantly, and then with more confidence, it draped around every pair of bowed shoulders. As bodies crashed into one another, arms clinging in desperate embrace and bellows or victory resounded alongside outbursts of, "Harry!" and "He did it! _We did it!"_ , the unspoken questions slowly answered themselves.

_Is it over?_

_Is it finally done?_

_We really don't have to fight anymore?_

And most silently, not even heard on a psychic, communal level from the victors: _Can we leave now?_

Triumph thrummed thickly throughout the victors. The survivors. Those who would step forward another day to fight in a different kind of battle – recovering, changing, growing and learning and _being_. But silently, unseen by those victors, were the fallen.

No one saw them. No one even could. And yet they watched as many had watched for years. They waited, as so, so many had waited for the chance to take a step from their stasis and progress to something more. To pass into something… other.

Bertha Jorkins, in her ghostly, unseen form, still quivered in the aftermath of what had been the torture curse, inflicted moments before the Killing Curse had struck her down.

Amelia Bones, standing still defiant with chin raised and gaze steady, just as she'd faced her death at Voldemort's hands for the threat she'd posed.

Emmaline Vance, wiped into cessation for her place in the Order of the Phoenix.

Igor Karkaroff, Barty Crouch, the eternally youthful Cedric Diggory and the ever-proud Rufus Scrimgeour. Ted Tonks, still bowed with weariness from fleeing for months before his death, and the house elf, Dobby, content but for a moment upon his own dying breath only to hang in suspension thereafter.

So many. So, so many faces and waiters, dead and killed and broken before they were forced from life. And all of them asking the same questions – yet of themselves, not those around them. Glances were exchanged, hope and fear and yet more disbelief welling.

 _"He's finally gone,"_ Regulus Black murmured, his dark eyes hollow with the weight of the discoveries he'd made before his death. _"He's finally…"_

 _"This is it,"_ Merope Gaunt uttered in a warbling voice. _"I can feel it, it's…"_

 _"We can leave,"_ Alastor Moody ground out, his voice gravelly and grating. _"No more of this pandering to the fear induced by some Dark Lord."_

Invisible heads nodded and something approaching smiles touched equally invisible lips. At the same time, silent tears fell. They could leave. They could finally escape, depart, progress towards what not one of them knew. They weren't ghosts, not Inferi, but something else. Something… stuck.

For Voldemort had upset the balance, they knew. Each and every one of them knew without being told, as a body alive could feel the cold and know it for a chill in the air, or feel a pang of hunger in the gut and know it to be a desire for food. They _knew_ that the upset of magic, of the worlds, of Voldemort's cheating death and dragging aside that veil, had made it impossible to continue. The unsteadiness of the bridge beyond, the wavering frame of the door to the other side, was an insecurity. That instability terrified even the dead.

But no more.

Smiles formed. Tears fell. And it hurt, but there was a moment in which every single one of the watchers, the spectators of the vast sea of relief that spread throughout the Great Hall, eased in their own relief.

 _Free_.

 _"We must leave,"_ spoke an aged voice, softly, gently, and wearied as they all were - but hopeful too. _"This is no longer our world. We must say our goodbyes and thus depart."_

Invisible gazes turned towards Albus Dumbledore, the elderly wizard standing tall and unwavering even in death. He nodded benignly, encouragingly, to all who waited alongside him. Then he smiled, to each and every one of the victims of Voldemort's plight who hadn't been able to take a step from a world still teetering with uncertainty.

They followed his instructions. They met his words with tentative steps towards the loved ones that still remained.

Noni Abbott slipped to her daughter's side and, with a wavering smile, patted her head. _"Goodbye, my love. Live well."_

Ted Tonks drifted in search of the remaining Order members, murmuring thanks, congratulations, regrets they would never get the chance to share.

Colin Creevey pressed his lips to his brother's ear with a murmured, _"Look after Mum and Dad, okay?"_ while Lavender Brown sobbed as she wrapped her unfelt arms around her best friend, blubbering farewells unheard by Parvati's ears.

Figures flooded, mingled, disappeared for a moment in the roiling mania of blessed, wondrous victory. Hands grazed backs, smiles spread softly, and many more tears were shed.

And towards Harry Potter, there stepped a cluster of those long lost and those barely fallen from life.

 _"You did so well, darling,"_ Lily murmured, touching her son's shoulder as she would never be able to again.

 _"We're so proud of you,"_ James said, resting his hand upon Harry's other shoulder.

 _"You did well, kiddo,"_ Sirius said, smiling with fond regret that his godson would never hear his words.

 _"We owe you the world, Harry,"_ Remus murmured. _"The world and beyond. Thank you."_

And then they turned. With a final glance and farewell, a final moment in which Fred Weasley clung to his twin and failed to withhold tears, when Nymphadora Tonks turned from what little remained of the Order, and Tom Riddle Senior, a man who should never have been involved, from the sprawled creature who had never been his son, they stepped away. Hands clasped one another's, holding in a chain of linked strength. Such was necessary, because to leave was still terrifying _,_ still promised the unknown, was painful even to those without a body to feel.

Invisible fingers trembled in clutching hands.

Heads turned in a final glance as they clung to one another in absence of those they left behind.

And finally, finally, those who had been anchored so cruelly even in death by the threat of Voldemort… They finally let go.

Through the joy and the triumph, the tears of sadness and excitement and relief, there was felt by all such a feeling of freedom, of stability, of setting right, that for a moment the raucous cries almost dimmed.

Hannah Abbott touched her head absently.

Dennis Creevey brushed a finger over his ear, throat catching at a passing thought of parents and responsibilities.

George Weasley glanced over his shoulder for a twin he could no longer _feel_ and the tears fell as they'd barely had the chance to cease.

And Harry Potter… he felt it, and he knew. Gazing upwards, outwards, and for a second pausing in the riot of grasping hands and back slaps and fierce embraces, he _felt_ them.

"Goodbye," he murmured, too quietly to be heard amidst the screams of persisting enthusiasm. "And thank you."

For once, all was made right with the world. A road to the future was smoothed and doors were swung open. That it could feel both so right and yet so wrong… none could quite understand. But a monster had been destroyed, a people set free, and the blanketing embrace of security and _rightness_ …

It didn't quite erase the loss, but it helped. Just a little.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Please note! This story will be (a continuing) piece of interconnected stories of multiple characters and their respective stories. Chapters with from now onwards be named for the relevant characters.  
> I literally have a story for each character, so if you'd like to hear more about any in particular, please leave me a comment with any requests!   
> Also, please let me know if you'd like me to continue. Any thoughts or comments are so, so appreciated!


	2. Harry

~|Twelve Months After the War|~

* * *

 

_Dear Mr Harry Potter,_

_We are pleased to inform you of your successful completion of the Practical Application of Law Enforcement Standards training program. Congratulations on your exemplary performance._

_Given that this accomplishment is the third and final component of your training, we are similarly delighted to announce your eligibility for graduation. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement has always sought strong, law-abiding members to join our own exceptional force, and it is with great pleasure that we hence offer you a position with…_

Harry closed his eyes. For a long, long moment, he simply sat. The smoothness of the parchment in his hand – heavy; of good quality – was as grounding as it was surreal.

Surreal… and foreboding.

With a sigh, Harry lowered the letter to the dining table before him. His head followed its motion, replacing the parchment as his face fell into his hands. Heavy. Tired. So, so tired. The ticking of the wall clock behind him was achingly consistent, studiously resilient. How could anything manage to persist for so long?

Twelve months, it had been. Twelve months since the end of Voldemort, since the Wizarding world had begun to rat out any of his remaining followers and wipe them clean of their corruption like mould from grimy floors. The Ministry had tottered to straighten from its Tower of Piza lean, had similarly wiped clear its own blemishes, and was just beginning to pick up its pace to run as a ministry _should_.

Hogwarts had been restored. The students had resumed their attendance. It had almost returned to normal, or so Harry had been told by Hermione. He'd not returned after the initial clean up.

Witches calmed. Wizards settled. Residents of their world had begun to wander the streets once more without glancing fearfully over their shoulders, and Muggleborns had finally taken to stepping outside without cringing.

All was well – or at least getting better. It _was_ better.

Harry should have been happy. The Ministry would always be something of a lost cause simply for the politics that wrought havoc within its halls, but that was only to be expected. Hogwarts had returned to its old-fashioned ways in a manner that was as comforting as it was exasperating. And the survivors of the war…

Harry sighed, scrubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms. The survivors were doing better. They all were. Every single one of them was healing. And Harry was doing his best to heal alongside them. How had he not even noticed just how much there was to fix, how much pain and scarring and – and _wrongness_ there was to remedy? In the heat of flight, battle, and horror for the sight of death, Harry hadn't even suspected, but the aftermath…

He hadn't realised it would be so hard.

Becoming an Auror was the logical decision. Harry was practically made for it, his instructors said. He had a history of fighting, had the urge to fight _more_ , and that innate skill, that drive, would be nothing but an asset to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Harry knew it was the right place for him to go, the place for him to be.

And yet.

Blinking his eyes open, Harry slid his hands down his face until the propped under his chin. He stared at the parchment resting before him, half folded back upon itself but not quite hiding the slanted, black-inked script within. It meant so much, those words. So much possibility, so much commitment. It bespoke direction, and doing something. It meant he was _useful._

And Harry didn't want it. As he stared at Martha Estinburgh's professional handwriting, he understood what had been plaguing his subconsciousness since the moment he'd all but accidentally defeated Voldemort.

_I don't want this. I don't want to fight anymore._

It seemed such a waste, to throw away twelve months of training. It seemed a disservice to Ron, who had trained alongside him, to Hermione, who studied her way to qualifications to _be_ something. It was a wrongdoing to the instructors themselves, to the entire Wizarding world, and to everyone Harry hadn't been able to save in the war.

Melancholy settled upon Harry's shoulders as it often had in the past week. Hell, had it only been a week? Only one week since he'd completed his training and withdrawn into isolation to bided his time for the results? It felt like so much longer, and yet infinitely shorter, too. Harry needed more time – to think, to decide, to know for sure.

Time for thought was not idly afforded, however, and even as Harry came to his realisation, the sound of a clatter echoed from the floor above. Harry glanced upwards at the darkened ceiling of the dingy kitchen; Grimmauld Place had grown no cleaner for his habitation in the past months, even if Kreacher had done his best to scrub every inch of it, as he never had when Sirius was alive. The smell of dampness remained, the streaks of something – some darkness, most likely an exploded meal – stained the walls, and the mismatched chairs of the central table creaked and leaned as much as they sat stoutly, waiting to be filled.

Harry barely saw it anymore. He'd spent a lot of time in that kitchen in the past week. Almost all of his time, in fact, when he wasn't wandering through the upstairs rooms.

A screech and another clatter sounded, and Harry exhaled in a sigh. An owl, then. He could hazard a guess who it belonged to even before the hummingbird flap of wings descended the stairwell to the kitchen.

"Hey, Pig," Harry said, gaze resting wearily upon the tiny own as it struggled to fly in a straight with its delivery. "You got here faster than I'd expected. I'm surprised he didn't just fire-call."

Pig cheeped merrily as he all but crashed into the dining table. A flurry of feathers erupted before he was rolling his little grey body towards Harry, dragging the red-enveloped letter after him. Harry untangled him before he could hurt himself.

The Howler exploded almost before he'd fully tugged it loose from its twine. "HARRY! MATE, I PASSED! BLOODY HELL, I PASSED! I WASN'T SURE I'D MANAGE FOR A WHILE THERE, WAS SURE I FAILED THAT BIT ON PROTOCOL QUESTIONS, BUT I ACTUALLY DID IT –"

Harry scratched at Pig's head as he listened with half an ear – or as much 'half an ear' as one could manage while being bellowed at. He listened, and he couldn't find it within himself to care. It wasn't that he wasn't happy for Ron, because he was. It was just that the enthusiasm Ron clearly couldn't contain so juxtaposed his own mindset as to be jarring. It almost hurt, and more than just his ears.

Harry hadn't seen Ron for almost the entire week after their training had concluded. He felt guilty for that, but… he'd needed time. Whether Ron had somehow sensed as much, or that he'd simply settled for spending time with 'the boys and girls' they'd trained with, Harry wasn't sure, but he was grateful for it nonetheless. Harry _had_ needed time. Time to realise he needed more of it.

"- KNOW THAT YOU'LL DEFINITELY HAVE PASSED IF I HAVE, SO MAKE SURE YOU SEND ME A LETTER BACK WITH PIG, ALRIGHT? WE'RE GOING OUT FOR DRINKS TONIGHT, WHETHER YOU LIKE IT OR NOT!"

The Howler crumpled in upon itself as soon as its message was relayed, and then it erupted. In a burst of flame that caused Pig to hiccup and bounce nearly a foot into the air, it showered to the table top in a sprinkle of ashes.

Harry sighed. Again. He felt like he'd been doing a lot of that lately.

"Horrid Weasley boy," muttered a grumble from behind him. "No sense of decency, to be firing such muck and filth and _noise_ into poor Kreacher's kitchen."

"Technically it's my kitchen," Harry said, not even glancing towards the old house elf who was the only real company he'd had for days. He returned to scratching a thoroughly frazzled Pig behind his neck. "Which means that I can receive letters from whoever I'd like."

Kreacher grumbled something else before Harry heard the slap of his bare feet patter to his side. Chin still resting in his hand, Harry glanced sidelong and down towards him.

The elf was old. Far, far too old, and likely should have retired about half a century ago if house elves even abided by such protocols. Hermione had told Harry countless times that, "As the proprietor of Grimmauld Place and thus Kreacher's _owner_ , you have to be the one to set him free."

She'd said 'owner' as one would 'slaver', and Harry couldn't blame her. Not entirely, anyway. She was rather forceful with her opinions on house elves, always had been, and it rubbed off after a time. She'd picked S.P.E.W right back up after the war.

Harry would have even abided by Hermione's suggestion, except that upon the one occasion he'd voiced his thoughts to Kreacher, the house elf had burst into tears and clung to his leg for three straight hours afterwards. Harry wasn't eager for a repeat performance; not even at the risk of Hermione's disapproving eye that was triggered whenever she stepped into the house.

"Master will be sending that bird away, yes?" Kreacher asked, turning his pointed nose towards where Pig melted blissfully beneath Harry's ministrations.

Harry nodded. "Yeah. Just as soon as I write a reply."

As if magically conjured – and likely so, if not expressly by Harry himself – Kreachers knobbly hands reached up towards the table with parchment, quill, and ink in his grasp. Harry took them obligingly, offering Pig a last nudge to the head and smiling slightly for the contented burp the owl offered in gratitude.

Maybe Harry should get another owl. He might have even considered it if it didn't feel so wrong to do so. Shaking his head at his own foolishness, at the silent acceptance that he likely wouldn't get over some things from the war, Harry bowed his head over the parchment.

He wrote a letter. Paused, and then he wrote another. Sealing them both with a Charm before pocketing his briefly extracted wand, Harry handed them to Pig with a murmured apology. "Sorry, but if you could take this first one to the Ministry before you go back to Ron, that'd be great."

Pig chirruped with his unshakeable merriment and sprung into the air. He sagged slightly, then twirled in an arcing spin before shooting off up the stairwell like a flung hex. The clatter of his exit – he'd likely collided with something – was all that signalled his successful departure.

Harry was skirting the table even before Pig had fully disappeared, barely hearing Kreacher's mutters behind him. "Master is leaving?"

"Yeah," Harry said, climbing the stairs.

"Master is going to see his friends?"

"No, I don't think so."

"Master is going to see the Estinburgh witch, then?"

How Kreacher even knew Martha's name Harry didn't know, but he didn't much care. "No, not that either. I'm…" He paused at the head of the stairwell, glancing back towards where the ancient elf trailed after him. "I think I'll go for a run."

Kreacher squinted up at him with something that Harry had only discovered in the past year of living with him was less of a glare and more a product of his failing eyesight. "Master runs too much."

Harry shrugged. "I like it," he admitted. "It helps me think."

"Master thinks too much," Kreacher muttered, and the way he turned his gaze down to his feet suggested he spoke more to himself than to Harry.

Harry shrugged again regardless. He'd been sincere in his words; if Auror training had taught him anything, it was that running felt good. Maybe not so much working out in a gym with the rest of the trainees – being shorter than most of them usually made for disadvantaged sparring – but running… that felt good. He'd never had a chance to simply _run_ before. Not without fleeing from something or someone.

Better than the burn of thigh muscles and the jarring slap of feet upon concrete, however, was the feeling of freedom. The temporary escape. That was what Harry needed.

He turned from Kreacher as the thought beckoned him. He was striding from the stairs to Kreacher's continued grumbles. "Master should be having something for lunch."

"I just had breakfast," Harry called in reply.

"'Just had breakfast' more than five hours ago, Kreacher is thinking."

"Was it really?" Harry said with only the barest hint of interest. Losing time didn't bother him so much anymore; it had happened too often of late. "Huh. Go figure."

He passed down the dark, eternally gloomy hallway. He didn't glance into the empty living room, the empty dining hall, didn't spare a moment for Walburga Black's curtained portrait. The door swung open for him as though it was expecting his leave, and Harry was running before he hit the pavement.

Running. Running away. If only for a moment, Harry would escape the weight of a war that had never quite left him. He would think. He would ponder. He would ground himself in his decision, in the words he'd sent back to Martha Estinburgh.

The war had changed the world for so, so many people. Some for good, for beautiful, for comfortable, and some… Some were still deciding. Before Harry, a world of duty and responsibility awaited him. Commitment, and more wars to fight, if of a different kind, spread down a stretching future beckoning to be embraced.

But not this time. Not by Harry.

 


	3. Dean

****

~|Twelve Months After The War|~

Dean stared.

There were a lot of things that had captivated him in his life. Truly captivated, to the point where he couldn't look away. As a self-proclaimed artist – if only of the unprofessional kind – he considered it part of his character to become so engrossed. Expected. Anticipated, even.

Sometimes, such engrossing sights were of a traditional fashion. A sunset, spread wide and pink, smeared with runnels of orange-washed clouds that faded imperceptibly with the encroaching nightfall. Sometimes it was a flower, perfectly unfurled and playing host to a single droplet of dew. A flock of pigeons in mid-flight, the towering expanse of Big Ben spearing the sky on a cloudy evening, the peppering of rain upon a fogged window and dribbling in solemn tears.

Other times, though, they were less traditional. Less noticeable, or appreciated or – or _impressive_. Those times, Dean stared all the more, because they were precious to _him_.

His mother sneaking a cookie from his stepfather's batch, winking at him over her shoulder with a silencing finger pressed to her smiling lips.

The pristine tranquillity of the Black Lake disrupted by a single ripple from some disturbance, some _thing_ below the surface that bespoke the dangers but also the wonders of the magical world.

An old, stained, faded couch with mismatched pillows. A wall, white and bare and open to the promise of coloured artistry to come.

And a boy.

That last was one that Dean had only grown to appreciate so recently. Far too recently, even, and he felt a fool for perceiving it as late as he had. But he saw, and he was captivated, and the artist within him was already painting upon blank whiteness – a wall, or a sketchbook, or a canvas – the wonder of what he saw.

Maybe it was the hair, always a bit of a mess and not quite blond, but not quite brown either. Maybe it was the way the boy always stared with utter focus, lips slightly pursed and the hint of a considering frown upon his brow as though whatever he gazed upon was utterly engrossing. Or it could have been the casualness of how he sat, entirely comfortable in his chair and himself.

Or how he held his fork.

Or how he yawned.

How he blinked, sighed, and scrubbed a hand across his face as if to awaken himself from a half doze.

Especially, though, when he turned his gaze towards Dean across the dining table and a familiar, affable smile drew across his lips. "What're looking at?"

Dean could only stare.

He'd admired many people in his life. He'd seen girls and thought them pretty, seen boys and admired them from afar. He thought his Mum was comfortably attractive in a way that was acknowledging without really contemplating further, and that his little sisters were adorable, if sometimes annoying. He'd thought Ginny was pretty, too, with her smile, her laugh, the way she scrunched her nose when she thought something particularly funny.

Seamus wasn't typically 'pretty', Dean didn't think, but he thought he was beautiful nonetheless.

In their home – their shared home, as safe from the world with its comfortable, faded couch and blank white walls waiting to be garnished – Dean was utterly at peace. That peace allowed for recognition of the beauty of the boy before him. He'd known it all along, he thought, even if he hadn't realised it quite so blatantly before.

"Breakfast any good?" he finally asked, nodding at Seamus' half finished plate of mediocre pancakes.

Seamus glanced down, then back up to Dean once more. He raised an eyebrow. "Just because you suck at cooking doesn't mean you have to ask me every time you try, like." Propped an elbow onto the table and dropped his chin into his palm, he stared at Dean with his usual intent gaze. "What're thinkin' about?"

"That I suck at cooking," Dean said with a small smile.

"You do. And?"

"And that I can't really be bothered to go to work today."

"Can you ever be bothered?" Seamus asked, a crooked smile settling upon his lips. Dean thought that was beautiful, too. "And?"

"And…"

And a lot of things. Dean thought about all kinds of things. He thought about the war that had passed barely a year before. About the people lost, and those still in mourning. About the changes to the Wizarding world and the changes that were still to come. Such were thoughts constantly on the edges of his awareness.

Right alongside the bills that needed paying, and what they would have for dinner that night, and when he should next call home to touch base with his family. Most significantly, however, rose to the forefront of Dean's thoughts in what he suspected he'd _always_ known but hadn't ever considered saying. Not to anyone before. Not even to Seamus.

Why hadn't he ever said it before?

"And that I love you," Dean said finally. _Finally_.

Seamus stared at him. He blinked – once, twice – and returned to staring. Then his smile widened into one of blossoming beauty. "Huh. I love you, too."

It was as simple and wonderfully complex that.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So, I know this isn't a very long Seamus/Dean chapter, but I'd really like to write more of them! It'll most likely come a little ways down the track again.  
> Thanks for continuing to read!


	4. Harry

~|Twelve Months After the War|~

* * *

"But why? I just don't understand. After all we've done and everything we decided…"

Harry closed his eyes. In the expansive living room in Grimmauld Place, wide and sprawling with furnishings that hadn't been properly used in years, he felt very small. It was too big for him. The whole house was. And yet Harry couldn't help but tuck himself away behind its walls.

"I'm just finding it really hard to work out, mate," Ron's voice continued from the fireplace. "Where did this even come from? It's so bloody unexpected."

Wrapping his arms more tightly around his knees, Harry rocked his head back into the wall behind him. He'd not consciously chosen to wedge himself in the corner of the room, but such was the way. Instinct drove the urge. Instinct, and the knowledge that where he sat wouldn't be visible from anyone speaking through the Floo.

"Why didn't you tell me? Were you thinking it for ages? Dammit, Harry, why didn't you just _tell_ me?"

Ron had been speaking for nearly five minutes straight. Five minutes, first surprised, then disbelieving, then actively angry.

"What? You're quitting the Auror program? _What_?"

"No… Are you having me on? Why would… why would you…?"

"Are you bloody kidding me, Harry? You're quitting? What the bloody hell, mate? A whole year of training, and – and – and what the _hell?_ "

Harry supposed he was right to be angry. Or disbelieving. Surprised, too. The rest of the Wizarding World would be when the story was eventually leaked. With his eyes closed to the emptiness of the room before him, Harry could almost see the article on the insides of his eyelids: HARRY POTTER DISAPPOINTS WIZARDING WORLD: AUROR TRAINING ABANDONED.

It stung. Even the suspected future that Harry wasn't certain of but felt confident enough in predicting hurt to consider, and not only because some people might be as indignant as Ron was. It hurt because the anger, the frustration, the incomprehension that he, Harry Potter, wouldn't further his efforts in protecting the world – Harry knew they were right.

He didn't want to fight anymore. After a year of training for just that, he'd made his decision. He didn't want to fight; he could barely handle the thought of chasing ex-Death Eaters and Dark Wizards to lock them behind bars.

 _Why did it take me a whole year to realise?_ he'd asked himself countless times over the past week. _Why did I have to disappoint Ron? It would have been better if I'd just… if I hadn't tried, and I'd just…_

The guilt was the worst; that he wasn't going to continue to protect. That he wouldn't do more. That he was disappointing Ron, his best friend, the person he'd made a pact with at the end of the war to become Aurors.

Harry curled in upon himself further, dropping his head onto his knees. Shame coiled in his belly like a gloating snake. _I'm a terrible friend_.

"Is this why you've practically disappeared for two weeks?" Ron asked, still speaking from the fireplace despite Harry's lack of reply. "You were keeping this a secret from me? Or was it before that? Did you decide ages ago and just didn't tell me?"

Opening his eyes, Harry glanced sidelong to the fireplace. The green glow was the only illumination in the room. The tightness in his throat would have prevented his reply even had Harry something sufficient to say. Ron's voice wasn't loud – or at least not anymore. It warbled slightly, however, and to Harry's ears that was worse. Whether from upset or anger, he hated the sound of Ron's distress. He was still his best friend, even if… even if Harry couldn't manage…

The guilt, the shame, coiled its serpentine folds in his belly even tighter. _I should be better. I should do more. But I just don't think I can_.

Ron sighed to the accompaniment of a crackle of timber. "You're seriously not going to talk to me?"

_No._

"Really? I know you're there, Harry. You've never been a coward."

_Not until now._

"I thought you'd have told me at least, but… Bloody hell, whatever." Ron sighed again, the spitting of the fire making it more aggressive than it likely was. Ron no longer sounded angry, but simply wearied. "Whatever, Harry. Just do whatever the hell you want."

The pop from the fireplace signalled his departure, but Harry didn't move from where he sat. His back hurt a little, his rump protesting to the hard ground beneath him, but he didn't budge to even flinch. He closed his eyes once more, pressing his forehead into his knees.

 _I'm sorry_ , he thought, swallowing through the thick weight in his throat. _I'm sorry I couldn't do it, but…_

Maybe it was cowardice. Or disregard. Or selfishness, or nonchalance, or any number of the accusations that would likely come to the minds of witches and wizards across Britain when they heard of his decision. That thought hurt, too. The snake twisting in his gut tightened further.

But he couldn't do it. Not anymore. Harry couldn't be an Auror, and whether from cowardice or selfishness or something else, he would stand by his decision.

 _I'm sorry_ , he thought, and the apology wasn't only for his best friend.


	5. Andromeda

~|Seventeen Months After the War|~

* * *

The instinctive response to a child's screaming was changeable. After the war, Andromeda was reminded of that fact with a rude awakening.

It started with concern. A scream, a cry, and she would be up on her feet and worrying. _What was wrong? What does he need? Is he hurt or just hungry? Tired, or bored? Does he need me?_

With time, immediate concern faded into annoyance. _Why is he crying_ , or _Crying again? Already?_

Then the frustration. _Please, just go to sleep_ , or _I just left him, how could he find something to complain about already_? Anger often arose, irrational and driven by weariness when she sat beside a crib and uselessly patted an unsleeping back in a vain attempt to induce drowsiness.

As the weariness built, the frustration peaked and anger tipped over into exhaustion. Resignation took hold. The wail of unfailing lungs sounded in Andromeda's ears even in the absence of cries now; she fell to sleep for her brief bouts of rest to the clamouring tune of it's discordant lullaby.

Crying. Soothing. Caring and then not caring so much but acting out of necessity – that was what Andromeda's life had become.

The war had changed the world, and had similarly changed individual worlds for each of its survivors. There were the injured, some recovering over time but others who never would. There were the emotionally wounded, many of whom would never fully overcome their trauma as relived every other night. Some pains, some losses, couldn't be overcome so easily.

Andromeda knew that. She knew it each time she passed a picture of her husband still hanging from her wall. She knew it every moment she looked upon her grandson and beheld the vibrantly pink head he'd worn for months in a cry for his mother that no longer answered his calls.

Teddy Lupin cried. He wailed and sobbed, blubbering into the sheets of his cot or Andromeda's shoulder or simply the open air more than he was silent. At eighteen months old, Teddy Lupin barely passed an hour without crying.

And Andromeda could do little enough about it.

She'd discovered much since the war. It had been a stark awakening, and with each passing month, week, _day_ , she made more discoveries. Such as that she wasn't as calm, contained, and composed as she'd once thought herself. That she'd relied upon her husband more than she'd believed possible, and his absence still tore her apart every day.

That she loved a great many people still, but couldn't bring herself to see them as she should, couldn't allow them to intrude upon her grieving privacy as so many had offered. She'd discovered that she was, inevitably, alone, despite the offers of support – Harry, and Hermione, and Ginny, and Ron and so many of the Weasleys and their friends, so many of the Order.

And that, for all of her self-imposed isolation and the duty of caring independently for Teddy, Andromeda had discovered that she wasn't good enough. She wasn't strong enough, or smart enough or – or _able_ enough to care for a child who just _wouldn't stop crying_.

That day, exactly seventeen months after the war had ended, Andromeda woke to the sound of a scream. It was always a scream, and always into the darkness preceding morning. When was the last time she'd slept until dawn? Andromeda couldn't remember. Days seemed to run together, and despite what Molly Weasley might profess, that "It will get better, dear. He'll grow out of it," Teddy wasn't getting better. He wasn't growing out of it. If anything, he seemed to be getting worse.

Dragging herself from her pillow was an effort, but Andromeda managed. _I'm too old for this_ , she thought, but she forced herself to shrug aside her inviting blankets and stagger to her feet. "You're not that old, dear," Molly had told her the one instance Andromeda had uttered her thoughts. "We'll help you. Let us help you care for Teddy. We could take it in turns, if you'd like. One day each so you can have every second day away from him just to rest."

Andromeda realised in that moment that she didn't want that. She didn't 'like' the suggestion at all. Teddy was all she had left of her daughter; even if he screamed, and cried, and wouldn't let her sleep, and even if she wasn't entirely sure she cared for him some moments amidst her utter exhaustion, Andromeda needed him. In many ways, she thought she needed Teddy more than he needed her.

Staggering down the empty, lonely hallway from her room, Andromeda swung open the door that was never fully closed and stepped inside. Teddy's room, the room that had once been her daughters, was quaintly picturesque. The cot stood in one corner, curtains in gossamer blues, pinks, and yellows draped over the top and a mobile of caricature dragons grinning and roiling in constant motion beneath. A toy treasure chest, lid always open but packed as the toys were charmed to store themselves at the end of the day, stood along one wall, the rug depicting moving characters beneath it smiling and waving merrily.

The stout wardrobe presided over the room, just as a smattering of pictures and paintings watched protectively from the walls. On the roof, a spread of twinkling stars pulsed into the darkness, and the faerie Nursemaid – gifted to Andromeda after the war – floated between those stars, painted eyes peering down upon the cot with eternally worried love and adoration.

It was only because of that Nursemaid, a painted guardian typically present in most Wizarding households with children, that Andromeda felt able to sleep in another room at all. She would be alerted the moment Teddy's incessant cries arose from an actual threat.

Not that she truly needed it. Maybe it was her magical senses, but Andromeda always woke the instant Teddy began screaming. Sometimes she wished she didn't. Sometimes, just sometimes, she wished that she could sleep through his wails and allow the Nursemaid to do its job.

 _I'll sleep a night through Teddy's screaming when I'm dead_ , Andromeda thought to herself, and that was something new she'd discovered, too. She knew she was stubborn – every Black was – but that her stubbornness would endure quite so stoically through exhaustion was unprecedented; Nymphadora had never cried so persistently.

Sighing, Andromeda crossed the room and parted the curtains over Teddy's cot. He wasn't a big boy for his age, and she put that fact down to his frequent refusal to eat. "Stress was the cause," she'd been told countless times. "He's just upset." Such an explanation was all well and good for those who didn't already know that fact. Andromeda knew it only too well herself; there were many days she didn't particularly feel like eating, either.

Teddy still had his eyes closed. He still lay on his belly, but he'd clearly woken from sleep. His face, turned to the side, was mottled red and shiny with snot and tears. Sweat had darkened his pink hair, rested thickly in the scars that he'd adopted in eerie resemblance to his father, and as she always did, Andromeda felt a lump settle in her chest. Teddy shouldn't have been able to remember them. He'd been barely a month old when Dora and Remus had died, and certainly not aware enough to recall their features.

And yet there he was, every morning and every night, wearing the face and the colour of his murdered parents. Andromeda wouldn't be able to forget the war for his reminder even if she'd wanted to.

Leaning over the edge of the cot and absently picking up the plush wolf toy he'd been gifted for his first birthday, Andromeda grazed her fingers over his head. "Hush, sweetheart," she murmured, even knowing her attempt to be redundant. "It's alright. Grandma's here."

Teddy cracked open watery eyes, blinking up at Andromeda through his tears. That a child so young could know such pain she hadn't thought possible months before, but Teddy did. He knew. He might not know _how_ or _why,_ but Andromeda knew that her grandson understood his parents were gone and never coming back. He knew and he hurt for it.

That mutual hurt was only one more reason Andromeda wouldn't ever let him go.

Tucking the wolf into the crook of his elbow, Andromeda wrapped her arms around Teddy and raised him from his bed. He soothed briefly, hiccuping into her shoulders as he clung to her in return, only to restart his wailing when she passed next door to the change table and bathroom. Regardless of how quickly she changed his nappy and nightclothes, or how efficiently magic could rid him of any mess he'd, he always cried.

Always, always, _always_ …

Andromeda didn't attempt to quiet Teddy after her initial attempt. It wouldn't do any good anyway. To his briefly quelled hiccuping once more, she descended her quiet, empty stairwell and took him into the quiet, empty kitchen to dine upon the house elves' prepared breakfast in more emptiness. The not-quite quiet grizzles of Teddy from his high chair were their only company as they sat down to their house elf-made breakfast, those very house elves scurrying around Teddy with lowered gazes as they dutifully ignored him. They knew better than to interfere anymore. Not after so many screaming protestations to that interference.

Andromeda slumped in her seat, hands wrapped around her mug. She'd never possessed much of a taste for coffee in the past. Tea had been her preference – a quiet tea with her husband, before their fireplace and after supper, sitting in comfortable but not empty silence and reading a book, or losing themselves in thought. Not anymore, however. Andromeda needed all the help she could get, caffeinated or otherwise.

Sipping upon her coffee, she took a listless bite of her eggs. Across the table from her, Teddy sniffled and picked at his own food. He used his fingers, made a mess of his plate, but Andromeda couldn't bring herself to care that morning. Sometimes she tried. Sometimes she made the effort to impress a spoon upon him, to have him attempt manners and to eat as a child of eighteen months should be learning to. But that morning? No, not that morning. She couldn't. She was just so _tired_.

Teddy snuffled through a bite of his own eggs before raising his gaze towards Andromeda. She managed a smile, and though he didn't quite smile back, he didn't burst into his hysterical tears once more. "Yummy?" she asked.

Teddy blinked, raising his ragged wolf to press into his face. The plushie was always adorned with a crown of snot turned spiky when dried, regardless of how often Andromeda charmed it clean. She'd given up bothering to do so long ago. That wolf… Andromeda sometimes wondered whether Teddy somehow associated it with his father.

She wondered a lot of things about Teddy.

Breakfast passed relatively uneventfully. Teddy ate, which was a relief given that he oftentimes refused, and Andromeda managed to finish her entire mug of coffee before disaster struck. That disaster arose from the moment a house elf attempted to remove Teddy's empty plate.

He snapped. There was no real reason for it, except for the fact that Teddy snapped at most things. "High nerves," someone had told Andromeda. "It's likely because he's always on edge already." As if Andromeda didn't very well _know_ that.

Today it was the plate, because for whatever reason, Teddy didn't want it to be taken from him. Polly slipped it from the tray of his highchair, and within seconds he was a squealing, snotty mess of mottled cheeks and wailing lungs once more.

Andromeda closed her eyes briefly and bowed her head. "Polly, I thought I told you not to take his plate last week."

Polly squeaked. The slap of her feet as she rounded the table to Andromeda's side was nearly drowned out by Teddy's practiced vocalisations. "Polly is being very sorry, Mistress," she cheeped, concern lathering her words. "Polly is remembering, but Polly was thinking that Master Teddy was finished and –"

"Even if he's finished, just leave it," Andromeda said. She couldn't even gather the energy to be annoyed by the house elf's oversight anymore. Her deterioration in the face of her grandson's screams had pushed her to resignation long ago. "Remember for next time."

"Yes, Mistress," Polly said. She sounded nearly as hysterical as Teddy. "Polly will be remembering, Mistress." Then she scurried away, because the house elves had learned some lessons they weren't likely to forget. Like that Teddy didn't let himself be held by anyone besides his exclusive selection of people.

Andromeda just happened to be one of those people. Rising from her seat, she rounded the table to Teddy's side and unbuckled him from his highchair. With his wolf still tucked under his arm, his little fingers reached – one for Andromeda and one after Polly's retreating back as she hastened towards the sink. "Ma- _a_!" he wailed. It was about the only thing he would say.

"It's alright, dear," Andromeda said. "Polly's just cleaning it."

"Ma-a- _a_!"

"You'll get another one at lunch time."

Teddy wriggled in Andromeda's arms as she lifted him to her hip as though attempting to free himself, even as he tangled his free hand into the shoulder of her robes. His spluttered barely muffled as he pressed his face into her neck alongside it.

Andromeda closed her eyes again. It was going to be another long day, she could tell. Another long day of crying and sobbing, of distress and half-heartedly seeking a solution to the drama that plagued Teddy. It would be to no use, of course. Nothing would help but the impossible return of Teddy's parents. Whether Teddy knew the reason or not held little consequence; such was the fact of the matter, and Andromeda had realised it long ago.

She was right, of course. Before the hour had passed, Teddy's cries had deteriorated into their usual cyclical bouts of hiccupping distraction and crumpling messes when he collapsed sobbing onto the floor. Andromeda's head rung with the sound, the throb of it thumping behind her eyes as she watched her grandson wail in unshakeable distress, clutching his wolf as though it were a lifeline.

"Take him to a specialist," she'd been told by someone.

"There are Healers that can treat this kind of difficulty," said another.

"You just need to snap him out of it."

"You need to try –"

"He has to –"

"What you should do –"

Suggestions and suggestions, over and over again, but none of them Andromeda would pursue. How could she take Teddy to a specialist to 'fix' what was the same grief she held, and just as unfixable? How could she 'snap him out of it' when she understood? Why would she even consider it a difficulty when Teddy was struggling with his confusion and mourning just as much as Andromeda was?

She didn't take him to a Healer, a specialist, or to anyone else, and she didn't force him out of his grief, either. It would be impossible to do so anyway, when Teddy likely couldn't even comprehend he was grieving. So she took the only option she could.

Andromeda took them for a walk.

The sniffles and sobs that were Teddy's constant accompaniment seemed less abrasively loud in the openness of the streets. With the sun barely peering over the horizon, the peppering of cars minimal at best, and the absence of pedestrians that were even more absent that Sunday morning, Andromeda was afforded a hint of peace just briefly. Walking, she'd discovered, was the only solution she had. Her hands on the back of Teddy's pram, she trundled her grandson as she did almost every day. Had Andromeda been able to sleep while walking, she thought she would have done just that.

Down roads, looping along side streets, wandering across a bridge and then cruising up a modest hill. The outskirts of London where Andromeda had once lived with her husband were never truly busy, and there was always more footpath to walk along. So she did. She walked, and walked, and continued to walk as even Teddy's snuffles deteriorated into little more than sporadic hiccups. Andromeda closed her eyes as she wandered, and it was a blessed relief to rest even a little bit. She didn't slow as a dog darted to the fence at her side, whimpering and dancing as it followed her the length of its yard, nor when the sound of footsteps echoed across the road from her. Not when the sun finally touched her face, either, nor the distant sound of traffic picked up.

It was only when Andromeda's feet scuffed onto a pebbled driveway that she stopped.

Opening her eyes, she turned her gaze upon the sedately beautiful expanse of cemetery at her side. Hedge and brick surrounded around its entirety, but it wasn't barred from entry. The archway that the pebbled drive dribbled through held no gates as such was the only indication it was an entrance to anywhere particular at all.

As it always did, almost every single day, a tightness squeezed Andromeda's chest until she almost couldn't breathe. Ted was buried there. And Dora. And Remus, too, for he had no family to bury him elsewhere. It soothed Andromeda, even if just a little, to think that they were together, so close as to touch. They, at least, weren't lonely.

To the sound of Teddy's gurgling whimpers – he always seemed to feel when they drew near to his resting parents – Andromeda turned the pram down the pebbled drive. Instantly, like a blanket draping overhead to muffle her ears, Andromeda found herself swaddled in the ambiance of the cemetery. If the streets were scantily populated, the cemetery itself was utterly empty.

It was a different kind of emptiness, though. Different to the hollowness of Andromeda's house, the absence of people, the aching loneliness that couldn't be filled even with company. The cemetery was quiet, calm, and despite the weight that still all but crushed Andromeda's chest, it somehow soothed, too.

The spring trees were just beginning to blossom with flowers and vibrantly green leaves. The spread of new lawn naturally shorn by the winter sprouted, and the cluster of headstones scattered in vague patterns throughout were perfectly spaced, sitting in their easy tranquillity. Andromeda liked that. She liked that kind of silence, and though Teddy still cried – always cried – it wasn't as hysterically as it usually was.

The weight squeezing Andromeda's chest tightened almost painfully when she finally drew to a stop. Her hands curled tightly around the handle of the pram, lips pressing together to withhold their trembling, and her own tears welled to mirror Teddy's. Gazing upon the perfectly simple marble headstones of her husband, her daughter, her daughter's husband, she wondered if it would ever get any easier. She wondered if she would ever enter the cemetery without feeling the urge to sob.

Teddy's cries hitched in volume, but for the moment Andromeda turned from him. Just for a moment, and just long enough step towards the headstones and run her fingers across their dew-laden tops. _I miss you, dear,_ she thought as she stepped past Ted's resting place. _I'm sorry I'm failing so terribly, my love_ , whispered through her mind as she grazed alongside Dora's. Then, _You were too young to leave him,_ bypassed her thoughts as she paused behind Remus' headstone. Her fingers tightened briefly on the marble and the urge to cry mounted as Teddy's did in utterance.

Andromeda bowed her head. Too soon. Too much. Too – too _cruel_. If Andromeda had discovered anything after the war, it was that the world could be a cruel place.

 _The world… or the people in it_.

She closed her eyes to the unjust thought, for Andromeda _knew_ there were good people. There was Harry, who tried so hard to visit and help with Teddy despite knowing so little about children. Molly, with her eternal support, even if that support was at times aggravating. The entirety of the Weasleys when they could manage; surprisingly, George, once such a troublemaker, had taken to visiting with increasing frequency. Even the ex-Order – or those who still had the capacity to do so – dropped by on occasion. Andromeda had never been close to Minerva McGonagall, but she appreciated her afternoons of teatime even if they were only brief.

There were good people, but when Andromeda stood alongside the remains of the murdered, she struggled to remind herself of that fact. _Good people, good people, good people…_

She was still coaching herself into that belief when Teddy stopped crying.

The silence that followed was so unexpected, so deafening, that for a moment Andromeda didn't realise sound had ceased at all. Her thoughts remained so loud, and Teddy's cries had become so familiar that she'd grown habituated to them, that she almost, _almost_ didn't notice. Then she snapped her eyes open and spun towards the pram, because Teddy didn't stop crying, never stopped crying –

A woman bent over the open face of the pram. She was clearly a witch from her robes, the hood raised and her face hidden. From where Andromeda stood, she could only see Teddy's face, and his expression, as tear-stained as ever, was frozen into wide-eyed fixation. He stared at the woman bent before him, and he actually… stopped crying.

It didn't matter that a small miracle had occurred. Andromeda was leaping for the pram in an instant, nearly tripping over the skirts of her own robes. "What -? What are you doing, you -?"

The woman straightened. She turned. Then, with gloved hands, she drew the hood back from her face to reveal a head of blonde hair and eyes as blue as Andromeda's own.

Andromeda stumbled to a stop. Her breath caught for an entirely different reason, and just for a moment, thoughts of war and stolen family left her. Her hand curled around to top of Ted's headstone at her side, and she swallowed thickly. "Narcissa," she said, greeting her sister for the first time in years.

Narcissa blinked slowly. She'd always been composed, always a little aloof. Even at a young age, she'd possessed the poise and grace of a pureblood that Bellatrix had never managed and Andromeda had never wanted to. Expression was only truly discernible to those who knew her well enough.

Though she bowed her head, Narcissa maintained her hold on Andromeda's gaze. "Sister," she murmured.

Swallowing did little good in vanquishing the tightness that clamped Andromeda's throat. The passing seconds, each as silent as the last with the absence of Teddy's cries, didn't either. If anything, Andromeda's breathing grew more ragged, because…

Because her sister, her once-sister who she'd loved but had long ago turned from, stood before her. In a cemetery. _Right_ beside where Andromeda's family lay, killed by the hands of Narcissa's Death Eater allies.

Fury whipped through Andromeda like a lash, and it spewed forth with a spitting hiss. "What are you doing here?" she demanded, fingers clawing at Ted's headstone. "How dare you."

"Andromeda –"

"You come here? To this cemetery? _You?"_

Narcissa's lips thinned slightly. "Andromeda, I –"

"What right do you have?" Andromeda took a fierce step forwards, and the incessant pounding in her head spiked sharply as her fury coiled. "How dare you come here, to where they lie, and just – and just –"

"Andromeda, please."

Words faltered on Andromeda's tongue. Her sudden muteness made Teddy's restarted whimpering, but for once Andromeda barely heard him. Her ears rung with Narcissa's wavering plea.

It wasn't the word itself that resounded. Narcissa hadn't been as incapable of manners as Bellatrix was, and she knew when to bow her head. It was the tone in which she spoke. Andromeda considered that, despite their years apart, she knew her sister well enough to recognise it.

Narcissa took advantage of her silence. "I'm sorry, this is not how I planned to meet you again. I do not believe there would be any right way to do so, but…" Narcissa took a deep breath that Andromeda could only perceive as fortifying for knowing her sister as she did. _Even after so many years…_ "I had to see you. I had to talk to you, and I… have to apologise."

Her words were slow, deep, almost echoing. That depth conveyed something, and it tugged deeply within Andromeda. That tugging seemed to defy her internal struggle, her accusations for the cruel world. It seemed to struggle, to wrestle, and then, like a plug popped free, it tore loose.

Anger drained out of Andromeda like water down a sink. She felt her shoulders slump and very nearly bowed over the headstone at her side. So tired. She was always so tired, and it was more than physical weariness or a lack of sleep. Closing her eyes briefly, Andromeda forced herself to straighten before starting for Teddy's pram. She pulled him into her arms, wrapping him in an embrace as much to soothe as to protect Teddy from Narcissa's gaze. "What do you want," Andromeda asked quietly.

Narcissa's eyes flickered to Andromeda. "To apologise –"

"I know what you said," she interrupted. "I don't want to hear apologies, Narcissa. What do you really want?"

Narcissa's lips thinned again. It was almost imperceptible, just as every one of her slight ticks were, but Andromeda saw it. "I have made mistakes, Andromeda."

"Really?" Andromeda said. She couldn't even instil heat into her words. "You realised this only now, or was it during your trial that it was made apparent to you?"

Narcissa flinched just slightly, but Andromeda couldn't bring herself to regret her words. Her sister deserved it. She'd deserved every excruciating moment on the stand until she'd been let go with minimal reprimand. She deserved a husband in prison and indefinite probation upon potentially Grey or Dark magic. Andromeda might not have seen her sister for a long, long time, but she was aware of her circumstances.

Narcissa took another fortifying breath, however, and spoke once more. "I have done wrong, Andromeda, and I regret that."

"You're only just –?"

"But the situation spiralled out of my control before I could prevent it from deteriorating," Narcissa continued, raising her voice just slightly to overwhelm both Andromeda's words and Teddy's sniffling. "I never intended for things to go so far."

"Well, we've always known how deliberate your intentions were, Narcissa," Andromeda muttered. A flicker of anger sparked briefly before extinguishing beneath her weariness. "Please, spare me the sob story."

"It's not a sob story."

"Isn't it?"

Narcissa opened her mouth before closing it slowly. She nodded. "Alright. I won't. But at least allow me to speak."

Andromeda sighed, but she held her tongue as she stared at her sister. She nodded shortly, and Narcissa's expression softened just slightly with something that might have been gratitude. She bowed her head slightly before speaking.

"I have seen you walking," she said, gesturing to the pram. "With your grandson, is he not? He cries."

Andromeda bit her lips for a moment before replying with as much derision as she could muster. "That is very observant of you."

"He's in mourning."

Andromeda almost flinched. _No one else seems to notice, but…_ "Why?"

Narcissa tipped her head slightly. "Why what?"

"Why do you know that? You've seen me walking?" Andromeda shook her head, frowning. "How? Are you watching out for me?"

Narcissa's lips curled slightly into a smile that didn't hold the slightest hint of amusement. "I live here."

Andromeda blinked. "Here?"

"Barely two streets away. After my trial it was… strongly encouraged that I retreat into a relative safe house outside of London proper." Narcissa bowed her head slightly, eyes lowering. "In this instance, I happen to agree with the Ministry's suggestions."

"How very astute of you," Andromeda sighed. She shook her head. Truly, she didn't care what Narcissa told her. She couldn't bring herself to bother; it took far too much energy that she didn't have to spare. "People hate you, Narcissa."

Narcissa nodded. "They do."

"And with good reason."

"Very good reason."

Andromeda regarded her flatly. Narcissa had never been one to grow easily agitated, but this ready acceptance of her wrongs was new. Against her better judgement and the demands for attention that the graves alongside her spoke, she felt herself sag slightly further. In a voice just a little broken, she said, "What do you want, Narcissa? I can't help you with any of this."

She made a vague gesture at her sister that attempted to encompass the entirety of Narcissa's hateful situation. She might deserve it, but Andromeda wasn't so blind to the horror of her circumstances.

Narcissa didn't object. Unexpectedly, in a way that Andromeda didn't believe she'd ever seen before, her face softened further. Barely perceivable lines smoothed from her face and something deeply sad tugged at her features. "I have done so much wrong, Andromeda. So much. Let me try and fix it." Narcissa paused, lips parted and trembling so minutely it was almost imperceptible. When she continued it was in a whisper. "Let me help you."

Had anyone else said it, Andromeda would have turned them aside. To Harry, she would have smiled and urged to care for himself, to do what he wanted and what he needed as he'd never done in his life. To Molly, she would have shrugged and shaken her head, denying the help with words like, "I'm his grandmother, and I say I don't need the help." Minerva wouldn't have asked in such a way, and that strange girl, Luna Lovegood, who sometimes accompanied Ginny with her visits would have known not to in the first place.

But for some reason, Narcissa was different. Andromeda hated her, hated what she'd done and who she'd fought with. She hated her weakness in falling to the Dark and hated that it had torn Bellatrix apart right alongside her. She hated it, her, the war – and mostly that she didn't, _couldn't,_ truly hate her at all.

Squeezing Teddy, Andromeda found the tears that hadn't yet fallen that day slip free. She pressed her cheek into the top of Teddy's head, and as if he could feel her need for it, Teddy snuggled into her further.

"Please."

Narcissa's single plea drew Andromeda's gaze, and in the weight of her sister's eyes, she saw understanding. She saw that, for all of Andromeda's fortification, her denials that Narcissa hadn't even heard, she was seen through. Narcissa had been her enemy, had fought for the wrong side, but for a moment that didn't matter. She knew, and she knew that Andromeda… that she needed…

"Help," Andromeda whispered, and it came out more of a sob. "Please help me."

Narcissa smiled, and that was the final straw. Andromeda dissolved into tears as she never did in front of anyone, and for once there was someone to hold her through her pain.

In that moment, Andromeda discovered that the world might not be so cruel and lonely as she had previously believed.


	6. Hermione

~|Twenty Months After the War|~

* * *

The air shouldn't have felt so hot. Not so dry, like it was sucking the moisture through her pores. There weren't clothes cool enough for such weather in Hermione's opinion.

Stepping out from the shade of the station, Hermione raised a hand the cover her eyes. The brutal Australian sun beamed down upon her, and she swore she could almost smell her shoulders burning to a crisp beneath its radiation. Hermione had always considered herself a summer person, but this kind of heat?

 _I'll never complain about British summers again_ , she thought. Then she shrugged the thought aside. It wasn't the summer or the heat that she'd traveled across the world for.

It had taken her a long time to pluck up the courage. Nearly two whole years after the war, and she still hadn't made good her conviction, still hadn't fulfilled the one longing desire that had grown more pronounced with each passing day. Memories of the war, the clean up, the aftermath of mourning and pain and regret, hadn't died in that time, but it had eased. Survivors were beginning to return to their normal lives – or as normal as they could manage with the unshakeable weight that rested upon so many shoulders.

Hermione should do the same, and she didn't have an excuse anymore – there was no more school to waylay her inevitable journey that she truly didn't truly want to avoid in the first place. _  
_

"You should just go," Ron had told her, smiling affectionately and not really understanding. "Just grit your teeth and do it."

"You want to," Ginny had agreed. "You've talked about doing it for so long."

"There's no reason to be scared, dear," Molly Weasley had said with open affection. She'd patted Hermione's cheek as she would a child. "A moment of courage is all that's needed and all will be well again."

Hermione wasn't sure she wholly agreed. She appreciated the support, but she wasn't sure if 'a moment of courage' was all it amounted to. She wasn't sure if such courage would truly be enough to right the wrongs she'd enacted out of desperation. More than that, however…

_What if I'm too late?_

Few people truly understood Confundus Charms. Given that the primary purpose was to confuse an event or situation in an individual's mind, consideration for what happened to that mind and memory _after_ it was tampered was of little consequence.

Hermione knew, though. She'd known for years. How could she not have studied and committed every aspect of Confundus Charms to her mind before using it herself? She knew how to cast, what kind of emphasis to place where –

And she knew the risk time placed upon reversing the charm.

That was Hermione's biggest fear. She had plucked up her courage, had talked of 'doing it' for so long, just as Ginny had said, but her efforts would be in vain if she'd waited too long. If she'd run out of time and not acted quickly enough. It would be all her own foolishness, of course, her hesitant fear that had stood in her way to impede her acting promptly, and yet…

Taking a deep breath of the dry air, Hermione started down the footpath from the train station. She had her trip and eventual destination in mind, and despite waiting for nearly two years to approach it, she'd always been a stubborn person. That stubbornness was a feature she'd inherited from her mother, and one her mother had always been proud to claim ownership of, too. Maybe she would be proud now? Maybe, when Hermione showed up on the doorstep her parents had lived beyond for nearly three years, a flicker of memory and pride would resurface?

 _Please don't let me be too late,_ Hermione begged who or whatever would listen to her plea. _I know it would be my fault if I was, but please…_ Time was a key element. Like a tree settling deeper and deeper into the earth, a Confundus Charm would be increasingly difficult to uproot. _I shouldn't have waited so long. Even if it's scary, I shouldn't have waited…_

Hermione didn't run. She'd never been a physical person, had only ever fled when necessity dictated. But as she passed down the moderately crowded street, sweat beading on her brow as it seemed to do incessantly in the Australian summer, she very nearly trotted. It was almost impossible to stop.

The plane trip had been long and lonely. Hermione had denied the accompaniment of her friends because it hadn't felt right. She wanted – _needed_ – to do this herself. Just as she'd needed and wanted to be the one to reverse the Confundus Charm. She had the address her parents had settled down in, had the directions from the motel she'd stayed at the night before, and knew the foreign intricacies of the train line like the lines on her palm, because Hermione was a planner. Even in urgency, she wouldn't act with careless spontaneity. In this case, carelessness would be the last thing from her mind.

Leaving the station platform behind her, Hermione passed down a thinly shaded street with a smattering of trees lining the road. Cars squated beneath those trees, narrowing those streets until they were almost single-lanes, and stood sentinel before the humble-faced terraces that populated the suburb. Hermione barely spared a glance for those terraces as she passed, weaving through the casual street-goers and around a single pram that took up the majority of the footpath and necessitated an awkward, skirting dance to bypass. They weren't important; not to her mission.

Past a cluster of shops, several industrial fans churning the air from within to a barely tolerable heat. Hermione wound through café tables, edged around a group of young men and women spread nearly the whole way across the footpath and laughing amongst themselves, and continued.

Down a street.

Around a corner.

A pause to glance to a street sign, and then a left, crossing the road with a darting glance both ways.

Sydney wasn't as thickly congested as London – or at least not where Hermione had seen. Maybe she just hadn't been to the right places, but she found that what she _had_ seen was certainly different to her home city. Less traffic, less pedestrians, and less mayhem and noise and clutter. It suited her parents, she thought; her father had always claimed that, while he loved city-living, he'd always been partial to less chaos. Where Hermione found herself, weaving down streets and beneath consistently spaced trees, she could see how it would suit him. Even with a Confundus Charm, some elements of a character clearly didn't fade.

Hermione didn't have to wonder why that thought hurt just a little. She swallowed pat the faintly acrid taste in her mouth; it wasn't fair that she might resent her parents' new city for suiting them so well. Not fair at all.

The arrowed sign pointing down Flora Avenue drew Hermione to a pause. She wiped a hand across her forehead, doing little good but to smear the sweat. Shading her eyes, she peered down the length of the street and down the line of terraced houses almost identical to those she'd passed before, to the similarly lining silent cars and shading trees. It seemed slightly quieter to those she'd bypassed already, and that taste welled in her mouth once more. It wasn't fair to be resentful. It _wasn't_.

Hermione started down the avenue at a brisk step once more. _Fourteen_ , she counted as she passed a numbered letterbox. _Sixteen_ , and she grazed a hand over an iron-wrought fence. _Eighteen_ , found her skirting around a little boy crouching beside his dog who glanced up at her with a smile.

At twenty, she stopped.

The terrace was unremarkable. It had its own iron-wrought fence, a modest garden that was so small it could barely be deemed a garden at all, and a plain, pale footpath spanning the minimal distance between footpath and doorstep. Filigree awnings served as the only decoration around a plain door, the narrow windows at the front of the house darkened yet unmasked by curtains. A pale, cream façade, a dark, sloping roof, and when Hermione glanced over her shoulder, she saw a white car positioned on the edge of the road that could have belonged to the house before her. It was all simplistically perfect.

She swallowed again, turning back to the terrace. Fingers curling around the fence before her, she edged to the gate. It took courage, she'd realised each and every step of the way from the airport, and even before that. Courage, and a different sort to that required for fighting in a war. This one took a different strength.

But she was running out of time. Three years, Hermione had discovered. Three years was the extent to which most sources claimed Confundus Charms could be effectively and completely reversed without adverse side effects. If she waited too much longer…

Hermione opened the gate and stepped through.

The doorbell sounded as a tinkling, echoing chime behind the closed door. Hermione found herself shaking as though cold as she linked her hands behind her back, as if in direct denial to the uncomfortable Australian heat. She didn't like it, found she almost resented that heat, though the rational part of her mind knew her shakes were for less that thermal reasons. It was too different to London, and Hermione hated it even more for the fact that she recalled her mother had always claimed she liked the warmth.

A call from inside murmured through the door, and another more muffled voice replied. Hermione waited, nearly twitching in place as the sound of scuffling footsteps approached. She heard her breath hitch, felt her jaw clench and could do nothing to stop it, and almost flinched when the door final swung open to reveal –

Hermione blinked. "Who are you?" she blurted out before she could help herself.

The girl who stood in the doorway was perhaps ten, or maybe a little older. At the sight of a crop of dark hair and dark eyes, a wide smile that had already been upon her lips before she'd opened the door, and the casual comfort of opening that door herself, Hermione knew she didn't know her. She was confirmed of the fact when the girl tipped her head and smiled up at her without recognition.

"Who are _you_?" the girl replied.

Hermione blinked again. Had she gotten the wrong house? But no; she'd checked and double-checked, and that wasn't possible. Still, she frowned as she glanced over the girl's shoulders into the house. "Is this the Wilkins' house?"

A burst of laughter sounded down the hallway, followed by the clatter of voices that slowly died into muted mumbles just on the edge of hearing. The girl glanced over her shoulder, then back to Hermione. She beamed. "Yeah, it is. They're just hosting the street party this month, so they'll be…" she trailed off as she turned once more. "Mon! Mon, there's someone at the door for you!"

Mon. Monica? Was that who she referred to? Hermione had bewitched her parents into different identities when she'd forced them to flee, but it was still a blow to have that enchantment thrown into her face. Even more so that this girl, a girl she didn't know, spoke of her mother with such familiarity.

Who was she? A neighbour? This street party, a party that apparently happened every month – what was all that about? Hermione's parents had never been particularly sociable people, and certainly weren't inclined to hosting parties. The barest suggestion from the unfamiliar girl slapped Hermione like a smack across the face. She could almost hear a ringing in her ears.

Another invisible strike landed when the sound of more footsteps approaching down the narrow length of the hall preceded Monica Wilkins. "Who is it, Jamie? Has Patrick finally decided to drop around for lunch?"

Hermione couldn't breathe. As Monica appeared, then stopped behind the girl – behind Jamie – placing both hands on her shoulders, her lungs seemed to forget how to function. She was the same; the same hair pulled back neatly from her face, the same warm, intelligent eyes, the same lines around those eyes and marking her forehead. The same smile, too.

But they were also a little different. More softness in those eyes, and more depth to those lines. More width to that smile, as though she had more to smile _about_. And though her hair was pulled back neatly, it was with less severe containment than the upstanding dentist that Hermione recalled had always worn. More casual, just as her casual slacks and casual blouse were comfortable rather than modest and almost severe.

She wasn't Mrs. Granger. Not Hermione's mother. She might look mostly the same, but Hermione knew from a simple glance that she wasn't. There was something distinctly different about her, and Hermione… she couldn't breathe around the thickness all but choking her.

Monica slowly raised her gaze from Jamie, smiling benignly and leaning into the girl with the ease of familiarity. A third slap struck Hermione's face, because this girl – why was _she_ the one to be so fondly held? "Hello," Monica said with easy welcome. "Can we help you?"

Hermione stared – at her mother who wasn't her mother anymore. At the girl who wasn't Hermione but seemed to have almost slipped a little bit into her place. A neighbour? A friend? Hermione didn't know. She didn't know if her father had changed just as much, if he spoke with more ease and comfort at his 'street party' than her parents had ever been capable of.

She didn't know.

She didn't –

"No," Hermione choked out. She shook her head, blinking rapidly in an attempt to stifle the burning in her eyes. "No, I – I must have the wrong house. Sorry."

Then she turned and she ran.

The heat didn't bother Hermione so much this time. Her legs didn't protest to the act of running, and she would have ignored such protests if they had. Hermione fled down Flora Avenue, and it was through instinct alone that she found herself stumbling back towards the station she'd left what felt like only moments before. Instinct had her whipping her gaze around the mix of alighting passengers recently climbed from the latest train, and then she was throwing herself into their midst once more.

She needed… What Hermione needed was…

She nearly crashed into the plastic hood of the open phone booth as she snatched for the phone. With a scramble for petty cash in her pocket, Hermione blinked through blurred eyes at the handful of coins before stuffing most of them into the machine. She could hardly see, but what did it matter? A gold coin was a gold coin regardless of country.

Her wand acted upon the wholly Muggle device without the thought, opening the connection like a Floo halfway across the world through sheer desperation. She barely considered that someone – a Muggle – might see her. She didn't really care. Hermione clutched the headpiece of the phone with grasping hands, pressing it to her ear. It quivered slightly, and such was the only reason she even knew her hands shook.

 _Please pick up,_ she begged, closing her eyes to the tears that threatened to burst forth. _Please, please, please pick up…_

"Hello?"

As soon as Hermione heard Harry's voice, the dam withholding her battering emotions dissolved. Without managing a single word, she crumpled against the phone booth and sobbed.

It hurt. Everything hurt – her heart, her head, her very bones as she ached to return to the parents that didn't remember her. The parents that never would, because she couldn't make them. She wouldn't. Not now. Not with the life they'd built, and the friends they'd made, and – and –

Harry didn't need words. He was her best friend, and that moment proved it. Not because he was the only witch or wizard Hermione could contact that owned a phone, nor because he'd actually picked up that phone when she called. Ron could have too had he a phone of his own to hear her, but he wouldn't have been the same. He didn't know what it felt like to lose his parents. But Harry…

Harry sighed heavily, and there was understanding in that sigh. "What happened, Hermione?"

For a long moment, Hermione couldn't reply. Her blubbering was horrifying, and she could feel the snot dripping from her nose just as tears poured from her eyes. Her cheeks felt too hot, and her hands still shook and – and her head _hurt_. Why did everything hurt so much?

"I lost them," she finally managed, and even to her own ears her words sounded strangled. "Harry, I – I lost them. I was too – too _slow_."

She didn't say what she really thought. Hermione didn't tell Harry her true understanding of the situation – that her race against time had been redundant. That she'd run out of time as soon as she'd cast that damn Confundus Charm. The three years of settling roots hardly mattered.

But Harry didn't seem to need to know. He didn't often say all that much, Hermione had found, and spoke even less since the war, but his silence carried weight. It made the words he did speak that much more resounding. "Come home, Hermione," was all he said.

Hermione nodded. She clutched the headpiece of the phone, blinking redundantly vainly against the tears, and nodded fervently. _Home_ , she thought, and that single word hurt more than it had any right to.

She hung up the phone. She returned to her motel. And when Hermione flew back to England, it was with two unused place tickets still tucked into her bag.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you for reading! Again, for those wonderfully dedicated readers, and for taking a chance for those who have only just picked it up. I can't thank you enough!  
> If anyone has any particular tastes, any preferences or characters you'd like to hear from, please let me know! I'm not averse to suggestions, and that includes repeats of those I've already written :)


	7. Harry

~|Twenty-Three Months After the War|~

* * *

Airports were, in every sense of the term, the embodiment of organised chaos. That was the first impression Harry was afforded upon stepping through the doors of Heathrow Airport. There were ceilings as high as those in the Ministry of Magic, fluorescent lights glaring down unwavering illumination, vinyl floors polished to an immaculate shine – and people. So, so many people, and all stepping and jogging, striding and weaving, in that chaotic dance.

Harry's hand tightened on the handle of the suitcase propped at his side. Standing just inside the building and a little to the side of the thoroughfare, he swallowed thickly. It was intimidating. Strange. Different, and not only to Wizarding world.

For Harry had never been to an airport before. Not with the Dursleys, and not with any of his friends. He'd never even flown on a plane, and to think…

 _To think that my first time would be by myself…_ Harry swallowed again. He hadn't wanted that, but it was necessary. Expected, even, especially after the past few months.

Ron wasn't coming. He was an Auror now – had been for nearly a year. An Auror, and proud to be. Harry was proud of him too, in a way, or as proud as he was allowed to be. Ron was still his best friend, but after Harry had left the Auror traineeship at the cusp of graduation, had left _Ron_ , they'd been decidedly… detached. Almost estranged.

Harry would always love Ron, but Ron wasn't coming. Not to the airport, and not on the plane that would take Harry to the other side of the world.

Hermione would have come. Harry knew she would have, even if she didn't like to go outside all that much anymore. She hadn't been the same for some time, and it wasn't only because of the war two years past. It wasn't because Harry knew she still suffered from nightmares, or that she buried herself in books in an attempt to escape particular memories and flinching reflexes that seemed so unavoidable. Harry _understood_ that, because he did the same, if not quite into books. Ron did in his own way, too; he didn't try to hide that being an Auror was what worked for him.

It wasn't because of the _war_ that Hermione had changed most recently. Or changed more, that was. Barely months before, when Hermione had visited her parents…

To say the 'retrieval' of the Grangers had been successful would be a lie. It was a lie so complete as to be entirely incorrect. Hermione hadn't been the same since she'd come back to Australia.

"It was beautiful," she'd said, smiling at Harry as she'd climbed out of the taxi. Those were her first words: it was beautiful. She hadn't spoken after that, or at least not pertaining to her parents. Not that day. Instead, she'd launched herself at Harry, wrapping him in a crushing embrace of sobs and blubbering, hiccupping and clinging with desperate fingers.

Harry had held her back. What more could he do? There certainly weren't words to be said to the fact that the once-Grangers were never coming home. Not to Britain. Not to Hermione, either. The magic worked on their minds wasn't going to be reversed. Harry could only hold his friend and nothing more.

Hermione had barely been outside since she'd returned. Cloistered in her room at Grimmauld Place, she was 'studying', she said. "For my entrance exams," she'd muttered time and time again as Harry poked his head through the doorway. "I have to study, Harry. I have to. I have to…"

She wouldn't come out, and Harry wouldn't ask her to. Hermione was striding down her own path, and Harry couldn't tear her from that. He wouldn't, just as he wouldn't drag her with him to see him off. An irrational fear of airports for the memories they triggered was something he wouldn't provoke unnecessarily.

 _It's probably for the best,_ Harry had thought to himself countless times since he'd woken up that morning. _Probably best that Ron and Hermione don't come. After all, if all of us_ _were here, the_ Prophet _would certainly know something was afoot, and that…_

Harry shuddered at the thought. In the two years since the war had climaxed, since Voldemort had been destroyed and the last of it had finally, _finally_ ended, he'd learned to glance over his shoulder instinctively whenever he stepped outside. To take the back routes, to slink through shadows, to leave Sirius' old house that had become his own by alternate routes if he left at all. It had been bad immediately after the war, and that was when he'd still been training to be an Auror. Now, he could almost understand why Hermione stayed closeted behind closed doors. Almost.

It still made him want to tear his hair out, though. Which was why he had to leave.

With a glance down at his wrist, Harry wriggled the old watch he'd been given by the Weasleys what felt like so long ago until the face blinked up at him. Two hours. He still had two hours until –

"Don't look so worried. You've got ages."

Harry swallowed thickly once more. Squeezing his eyes closed for a moment, he glanced to his side. "I'm not –"

"Not worried?" Ginny raised an eyebrow, though the smile she gave him was gently chiding rather than teasing. "I know your worried face, Harry. You don't have to freak out or anything."

"I'm not freaking out," Harry mumbled, dropping his gaze to his wrist once more. As if in defiance of his words, he saw his hand tremble just slightly. He huffed a self-deprecating little laugh, then almost flinched as Ginny clapped him on the shoulder. "Sorry."

"What're you apologising for?" she asked.

"For –" _everything_. Harry almost said. For dragging her to a Muggle airport where he'd be effectively leaving her. For asking her to accompany him at all because this time, in this instance, he couldn't ask Hermione or Ron. Not anymore. Harry's throat tightened and he didn't think he could have spoken even had he tried. Swallowing didn't seem to be doing any good anymore.

Ginny seemed to understand him anyway, however. Harry was grateful for that. They'd gotten closer over the past years, if in a different way to how he might have expected or even hoped for in his sixth year. She huffed a little laugh of her own. "Quit it. You're getting all sentimental, now."

"'M not," Harry said, and he didn't sound convincing even to himself.

"You are. Come on, Harry, a Floo Terminal – or aero-port or whatever – isn't a place to get upset in. It's exciting, what with the holiday-bugs infecting the place and all. Right?"

Harry glanced at her sidelong once more. She was beautiful, was Ginny Weasley, and it wasn't just because of her face. It wasn't because of her glorious hair or the smattering of freckles across her nose. It wasn't even because of her infectious smile, but more correctly because of where the smile came from. Because of what that smile _meant_.

Harry loved Ginny, and maybe in a different life, had _he_ been different, he might have even been _in_ love with her. Maybe.

Ginny's smile slowly faded. Whether it was Harry's expression or simply that she knew him so well as to perceive what few others could of him, he didn't know. Regardless, she glanced over her shoulder towards a cluster of fast-stepping Muggles entering through the sliding doors, almost warily, as though to ensure no one could overhear them.

When Ginny turned back to Harry, it was to urge him further from the doors and away from the thoroughfare. The echo of voices, of buzzing chimes as passengers passed through distant turnstiles and clicking heels as more of those passengers approached desks or unslung bags from shoulders to be checked by security guards, rippled through the air. Had Ginny not leaned so closely to him, Harry likely wouldn't have heard her low words at all. "What's wrong, Harry? Why are you so scared?"

Harry drew a deep breath. He held it for a moment before letting it escape in a long, slow stream. Then he closed his eyes. "It's an airport, Ginny."

"Yeah, I know."

"I'm pretty sure most witches and wizards are scared of airports and aeroplanes in general, what with the whole non-magical flying thing."

"Yes, but you're not most wizards."

Harry cracked an eye open to peer at her. She was blinking at him expectantly, as open and guileless as ever. "I still get scared," he admitted as he likely wouldn't have to anyone years ago. Not when such a confession would have been so shunned, so disbelieved.

Ginny nodded, accepting the admission. She'd said the same to him countless times. As had Hermione. As had Ron, too, before he'd thrown himself into his role as an Auror that seemed to forbid such disclosures. "Yes. I know that, too. But not of aeroplanes. What's really the problem?"

Harry raised a hand to the back of his head, scratching awkwardly. "It's scary, leaving England."

"Maybe," Ginny said. "I know I've never been anywhere myself. But Australia can't be that different, right? I mean, at least they still speak English there."

There was that. If Harry was going to make his first trip anywhere, he wanted to at least go somewhere he could communicate without making a fool of himself. There were tourist charms that could thin such language barriers, but Harry had never gotten the knack of them. More than that, though…

 _"It was beautiful,"_ Hermione had said, if little else was spoken of her failed trip to retrieve her bewitched parents. That, in Harry's opinion, was reason enough to go.

"It's really far away," Harry continued.

"Only a Portkey, if you wanted to buy one," Ginny said.

"I've never been on a holiday before."

"Which would make this your first. And exciting, not scary."

Harry bit his lip. There were so many excuses, but… "It's expensive," he said.

Ginny shrugged. "You have the money. Besides, you've already paid for the trip."

"I feel guilty."

"For the money?"

"That," Harry admitted, "and…"

"And?"

Harry closed his eyes briefly once more. _So much to feel guilty for_. "I shouldn't be leaving Hermione. Not just yet."

Ginny sighed. "I knew this would come up, even if we have already discussed it." She reached a hand to his shoulder once more, squeezing slightly until he met her gaze. "We _have_ talked about this, Harry. Countless times. And I'll tell you exactly the same thing I did last time: _I'm_ going to be here still. So will Luna. And Mum and Dad, and Ron, too, even if he and Hermione are going over the rocks at the moment."

 _Which is only one more reason I shouldn't be going_ , Harry muttered to himself. Hermione and Ron had been going 'over the rocks' for a long time. Years, even, to the point at which they were apart more often than they were a couple. It was currently one of their 'off' periods; it would have been decidedly awkward had Harry asked them to accompany him that morning.

"What if she needs me?" he said, just as he had in those countless discussions he and Ginny had shared.

Ginny shrugged again. "You're only a phone call away, aren't you? Muggle phones are good for that much, at least."

"Yeah…" Harry dropped his gaze down to his feet. His old, worn trainers were a little worse for wear, and made even more apparently so when compared to the polished business-wear of the men and women striding past him. Wednesday morning at Heathrow airport in the middle of April wasn't exactly holiday period; those that flew did so for work.

Except Harry, that was.

Ginny squeezed his shoulder again. "What is it, huh?"

"What?" Harry muttered, shifting awkwardly.

"What's really bothering you?"

"I –"

"Harry." Ginny's tone was final. "We've danced around this for weeks. 'Maybe I'll take a holiday' and 'do you think I should?' and 'someone give me validation' isn't exactly boosting my confidence in feeling like you're confident with going by yourself."

"I'm never actually all that confident anymore, Ginny," Harry said, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. That last mimicry, at least, was definitely ad lib.

Ginny squeezed again. Her fingers clamping tightly around his shoulder, she squeezed, and squeezed, and it was incessant. A demand. She did that sometimes; it was a show of her own stubbornness, a means of indicating that stubbornness to any who thought they could avoid it. And she would continue squeezing with her unspoken suggestion until –

Harry raised his gaze and met her own. Ginny stared at him expectantly. Her eyebrows were raised slightly, eyes wide, and not a hint of her beautiful smile remained. Not that she frowned, but she was serious. There would be no escaping it, Harry knew.

Not that he didn't try. "What?"

"Harry," she said flatly.

" _What_?"

Ginny sighed. "Are you really going to keep on pretending?" She shook her head slightly, almost like a parent scolding a child. Or an older sister, perhaps. Harry couldn't find it within himself to be annoyed by the notion anymore. He might have, once, but the war and the years since seemed to have sapped the urge right out of him. "Why don't you just tell me?"

"I don't –"

"Harry."

"It's not –"

" _Harry_."

He was cornered; Harry knew that much. Even more so when Ginny continued with, "Don't leave having whatever's weighing you down still sitting on your shoulders. Come on. Let me help you with this."

Ginny was such a good person. Such a _loving_ person. Kind and gentle, but also fierce and stubborn to within an inch of her life. Harry definitely could have fallen in love with her – in another life.

 _But not this one_ , he thought. _Not when I'm running away like a coward._

Swallowing as he'd been trying to do all morning – and uselessly, for the lump still remained in his throat – Harry's hand tightened around the handle of his suitcase once more. "I'm a terrible person."

Ginny blinked. "What?"

"I am, aren't I?"

"Harry." Ginny did frown now, her eyebrows dropping low. "What're you talking about? No, I don't think you're –"

"You've read the papers, haven't you?" Behind eyes closing once more, the front page of the _Daily Prophet_ rose vividly in his mind. "I think they still feel the need to post a story about me at least once a week."

Ginny fell silent, and to the sounds of the airport gurgling and echoing around them, Harry wondered if she saw what he did.

_HARRY POTTER LEAVES AUROR PROGRAM_

_THE SAVIOUR GIVES UP A LIFE OF SAVING_

_IS THIS THE END? WHAT WILL HARRY POTTER DO NOW?_

_HOW DOES THE BOY WHO LIVED LIVE?_

They were all the same, all but identical to how they'd been for months. Some were practically copies of older articles, twisted to fit more recent propaganda. People wanted to stick their noses into Harry's life. When he was training to be an Auror, the papers were riddled with pictures of him in the gym, or in classes, or standing to attention before his teachers in shots that he had no idea where they'd come from. After he'd dropped out, however, the paparazzi had grown only more demanding.

That was when the tailing had begun. That was when the – the _stalking_ started. Harry had lived on edge since he'd withdrawn from the Auror program a year before, so much that he almost regretted doing it at all.

Not more so, however, than the most recent of paper articles: _HARRY POTTER ABANDONS THE WIZARDING WORLD_.

It was a headline that had been dancing around the fringes of the newsfeed for months. Since Harry had withdrawn, praise and almost worship had faded into concern, then suspicion, then something darker. Something almost resentful. And Harry couldn't bring himself to do anything about it. He didn't _want_ to because… because…

He was tired. The war was over, and he was so, so tired. Harry just wanted it to be done – but even that want didn't erase the pervasive feelings of disapproval and disappointment radiating from the _Prophet_ he couldn't help but read. What kind of masochism drew him to such a pursuit he didn't know, but he read it. And it _hurt_.

The squeeze and then jostling shake of Ginny's hand on Harry's shoulder drew him from his thoughts. He blinked, glancing up at her once more. Her frown was still affixed, but Harry knew her well enough to realise it wasn't directed at himself. Or, at least, not mostly. "Harry Potter," she said, and a slight hint of anger that _was_ for him touched her words, "you're being a bloody idiot."

Harry smiled slightly. "Thanks."

"No, really. I mean it. You still read the _Prophet_?"

Harry shrugged beneath Ginny's hand. "Can't seem to help it."

"It's all drivel, you know."

"Yeah, I know."

"The reporters will spout anything they can get their hands on."

"I know."

"And when they _can't_ get their dirty little paws on anything, they make up bullshit stories to get the hype." Ginny's voice deepened to almost a growl of anger. "You are not 'abandoning' anyone, Harry."

So she'd read them too. Harry had known she had, despite her reprimands that he do otherwise. His friends – all of his friends – made a point of reading it just so that they could firecall him immediately should a particularly vicious reporter spout a new story that stung particularly painfully. It had happened before and would likely happen again. Harry's friends were always there to snap their defence, even if Harry didn't know he needed the support.

Unfortunately, that fact only made Harry feel worse at that moment. Disappointing the Wizarding world was one thing, and a bad one, but his friends? Harry was leaving them, so he must be –

"Stop it," Ginny said, shaking him a little more forcibly this time. "Stop that."

"Stop what?" Harry said quietly.

"Kicking yourself." Ginny's lips thinned. "You always do that."

"I don't."

"You do."

"No, I –"

"Just because people say things doesn't mean you have to believe them. You're allowed to live your own life too, you know. You don't have to… I don't know, live up to the expectations of the Ministry and all that trollop."

Harry laughed without much humour. "Are you sure about that? The papers seem to think so."

Ginny scowled. "Yeah, well, when the papers finally dispose of employees like Rita Skeeter, then maybe I'll give them a moment of my time. But otherwise?" She shook her head fiercely. "They don't deserve it."

"Ginny, you're awesome," Harry said faintly, just because it was true.

She nodded shortly. "I am. And you'd better believe it."

"I do."

"You trust me, right?"

"Of course I do."

Ginny raised her second hand to Harry's other shoulder and turned him slightly to face her head on. "Alright, then. So believe me when I say that you're not abandoning the Wizarding world. You're not abandoning anyone. You're allowed a bloody life, Harry."

"Some people think –"

"I honestly don't care what other people think," Ginny interrupted him. "And you didn't used to either, if I can recall."

That much was true. Thinking back to his schooling days, that much was very true. A lot had changed with the war, and Harry knew he wasn't removed from changes himself. Like his aspirations to become an Auror. Or his anger. Or his resilience, for that matter, which he often sourly reminded himself of. Where had that gone, exactly?

 _I'm a coward, abandoning my duties and caving beneath the strain of a few words in the papers_. He frowned bitterly down at his trainers once more. _It's no wonder that I'm –_

"I said stop it," Ginny said sharply once more.

Harry glanced at her. "When exactly did you become my cranky sister?"

"About the same time you stopped being my boyfriend," Ginny replied matter-of-factly and without a hint of resentment in her words. There never had been between them; not for a second. "And as your big sister –"

"Wait, shouldn't it be little?"

"- you have to listen to me." Ginny pinned Harry with a stare, peering up at him and entirely ignoring his interruption again. "Got it?"

Harry smiled slightly. The guilt, the resounding disapproval and disappointment from the _Daily Prophet_ , still rung in his ears, but he smiled, and he listened. "Got it."

"Good." Ginny nodded firmly. "Then you flip off that bloody _Prophet_ and listen to _me_ when I say that I'm proud of you. Okay?"

Harry blinked. "What?"

"Yeah. I am."

"I – what?"

"You." Ginny said promptly. "I'm proud. Of you."

Harry blinked again. The bustle of the airport around them seemed to fade away slightly. "I don't… what?"

Ginny sighed. The way she shook her head really did seem more like the actions of an exasperated sister than an ex-girlfriend. "You don't get it, do you?"

"Apparently not."

"When you quit the Auror training."

Harry couldn't help but wince. "Yeah, when I –"

"When you turned you back to the nagging of the papers," Ginny continued, overriding him once more.

"I shouldn't have –"

"When you didn't cave before them even though they all but demanded that you become an Auror and join the Ministry like a good little Boy Who Lived."

Harry swallowed thickly for the thousandth time that morning. It hurt. It _hurt_ to think that, and that he should have kept it up but he _couldn't_ , that he didn't _want_ to, despite what Ron had said, and –

"And I'm proud of you," Ginny said, slicing demandingly into Harry's thoughts. Her hands rose from his shoulders to clasp on either side of his head as though to hold him steady. "I really am, Harry. I'm proud of you for sticking up for yourself and doing what you want."

"In a not-condescending way at all, of course," Harry muttered.

"Of course," Ginny said, her smile welling briefly before fading into seriousness again. "You're not abandoning anyone, Harry, and least of all the Wizarding world. If anything, I think you've helped it."

"By dropping out of Auror training, hiding for a year, and then running away to Australia?" Harry asked. He couldn't quite withhold the bitterness in his tone, nor the guilt. It stung painfully, like salt poured into a raw wound that had been assaulted time and time again by each scathing word in the papers.

But Ginny only nodded firmly. "Precisely."

"I don't get it."

"Of course you don't," Ginny said. "Because you're you, and you're blind to how incredible you are. But for other people? For the people who are only just starting to realise they can have a life after and outside of the war? That they can do what they want, even if it's not what's expected of them?" She shook her head. "You're certainly not abandoning them."

For whatever reason, to Harry's ears, Ginny sounded almost as though she meant 'me' instead of 'them'. He wondered why. He wondered what part of Ginny's life would make her see him as the kind of inspiration that would make someone proud. Ginny had finished school. She'd thrown herself into quidditch almost as though compelled, and was considering accepting the offer of the Holyhead Harpies that had been posted to her.

Again, for that matter. Harry had never understood why she'd turned them down the first time, but…

"We can't be who the world wants us to be all the time, Harry," Ginny said, speaking quietly as her fingers curled slightly around his nape. "It's unrealistic and exhausting. The sooner everyone realises that, the happier we'll be. For purely selfish reasons, that means that you leaving is a good thing."

When had Ginny become so wise? Harry didn't know. Maybe that had been a change of the war, too, but he didn't think so. More likely he simply hadn't seen that wisdom for what it was. Attempting a smile, he raised a hand to hang loosely from her wrist. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to get rid of me for some reason."

Ginny smirked. "Good thing you know better, then."

"Do I?"

"Don't be a git, Harry."

Harry laughed. Then, almost compulsively, he glanced at his wristwatch. He'd been so glancing all morning on their way over.

"You should go?" Ginny asked, more of a question then a statement. Still, she didn't wait for a reply. "What've you go, only an hour and a half to walk all of a couple hundred meters?"

Harry laughed a little more easily this time. "Close. An hour and forty-five minutes."

"Well, better get cracking, then," Ginny said, sarcasm touching her tone. She dropped her hands from Harry's head but didn't step back. Instead, in an almost lunging step, Ginny reached her arms forwards and wrapped them around his neck.

Harry grunted. Ginny gave the absolute best hugs. Better in some ways even than Hermione's.

Chaos swirled around them. Clicking steps and scurrying passengers. An announcement sounded overhead, and the _whoosh_ of the sliding doors murmured once, then again, and again. Just for a moment, however, Harry didn't hear it. He was more than happy, for that one moment, to hold onto his friend before leaving for he didn't even know how long.

"Thanks for the heart-to-heart," Harry whispered into her ear as he held her against him.

"Any time," Ginny whispered back. "It's practically a given when someone leaves to go on a life-changing holiday."

"Life-changing?"

"For you? Hopefully. Do it for your big sister, if nothing else."

Harry laughed into her shoulder and wondered detachedly why it sounded almost like a sob. "So this is going to be a thing, now? My sister?"

"You mean you've only just noticed it is?"

Harry squeezed her only tighter. If his eyes blurred with tears just a little, Ginny didn't seem to mind. If anything, when he sniffed slightly, her crushing hold crushed him even further.

He left her after that – the only friend who'd seen him off at the airport, just as he'd asked. No one would know for a time that Harry was leaving, and even if he felt guilty for that fact, he kind of liked it, too. It was… nice, to be anonymous. To be out of the public eye. To be _away_ , just as Harry had only realised so recently that he longed to be.

As he walked backwards towards the security gates, waving to Ginny as she waved her own farewell in return, it was with a weight lifted just slightly from Harry's shoulders. He might be abandoning the Wizarding world with his decision, but at least, for whatever reason, he'd made one person proud.


	8. Cho

~|Twenty-Four Months After the War|~

* * *

"Bloody hell. Oh, _bloody_ hell, this is a disaster!"

Cho didn't quite flinch when Sophia Heathcliffe's hand slapped down onto her desk alongside hers. It had happened before. Countless times that morning, in fact, and with increasing force each slam.

Ducking her head, Cho returned to flicking through the drafts before her. After eighteen months of employment, she was still only an assistant. As such, her primary duties amounted to checking and double-checking that which her superiors had already flicked through before her.

To check for grammatical errors. For flow and succinctness.

To ensure chronology of the segment was in order.

To adjust any formatting flaws before the final print.

It was the same every day. The same formula, with only the stories and articles themselves changing. Cho liked the consistency. She was almost surprised by that fact, for only her friend Marietta's suggestion had urged her to take the job at all.

But she _did_ like it. Cho liked the busyness, the routine. She liked immersing herself in the sparks of propaganda-induced excitement that were so changeable as to be all but forgotten the next day. Which celebrity was seen with whom; what the newest bill passing through the Ministry entailed; which latest fashion disaster had gripped the Wizarding world, or what sports team had suddenly stepped up their game.

It was interesting. The best kind of interesting. Cho would even say she was growing to love her work, except for –

Shouts for attention rebounded across the room. Footsteps thundered as one, two, three people charged towards the doors, eyes blown in typically harried wideness and Charmed bundles of papers bobbing after them. A thud of papers landed on a desk. And from Sophia's desk, the now-expected words arose: "A bloody, _bloody_ disaster."

Cho might love her work, but she didn't like the noise. Not really. That day, the eve of the anniversary for the Battle of Hogwarts, was even louder than usual. Louder than the previous year, because…

"Any word? Has _anyone_ had any word of him?"

Cho glanced briefly from her papers across editorial quarters to the man who stood framed in the doorway, scowling viciously. Open desks, an absence of walls, the room wide and air unimpeded by anything more solid than charmed notes with scribbled reminders or flung suggestions. It made for easier communication. Easier distraction, too, as Cho saw in her brief glance. Around her, heads turned, rising to attention. Such tended to happen when the boss of the department appeared and barked a demand.

"Nothing," Sophia snapped back, not quite disrespectfully but in visible agitation. "I sent Keith out with his crew towards Diagon Alley –"

"We've got a whole three vans parked outside his house," someone called from across the room.

"Margaret's stationed at least one in the region of each of his friends' families, but nothing –"

"- at the Ministry –"

"- where he usually goes for a morning jog –"

" – I tried to ask –"

Cho's attention jumped between each speaker, and she felt her lips thin slightly. _That_ was something she didn't think she'd grow fonder of, either, regardless of how necessary it was. She didn't like that the paparazzi, reporters, and go-getters all but stalked anyone who promised a good story. It didn't matter if those celebrities were used to it. It didn't matter that most had long ago grown accustomed to reporters idling outside of their houses.

It didn't matter that, in this particular instance, 'he' should have been expecting to be hounded like a criminal. 'He' was about the most important part of the anniversary, or at least to the _Daily Prophet_. 'His' words, 'his' story, knowing exactly what 'he' was doing at the present simply because people wanted to _know_.

Which they did, and thus the interview was still important, but Cho still didn't like the hounding. Maybe it was because Harry still held a personal place in her heart, despite that their not-relationship had ended almost before it had begun. In this instance, at least, Cho thought the reporter's stalking attempts were more that a little invasive.

That day, the anniversary of the end of the war, Harry Potter was supposed to give an interview. He was supposed to pose for the camera, smiling and waving to appease the Wizarding world that was well to healing. Except that catastrophe had struck upon their editorial floor as Harry's had seemingly vanished. He was missing, he wasn't giving an interview even though it was _expected_ , he was somewhere silent, he was – _he was –_

Cho didn't know. It wasn't her job to know. But she couldn't possibly overlook the mania that gripped her surrounding editors more intensely for Harry's absence. Cho appreciated his desire for privacy, but just a little piece of her wished that he would show up, even if only to silence the noise.

Across the room, her boss was positively twitching with each word of denial flung towards him. As Cho bowed her head over her papers again, it was to peer at him as he pushed himself backwards from the room. "Let me know the minute – the minute! – anyone hears word of him," he threw over his shoulder. "I mean it!"

Then he was gone. With his absence, mania gripped the room with renewed vigour. Deafening noise erupted.

"Of all the bloody days to go bloody missing," Sophia muttered, barely audible from the desk alongside Cho's.

Cho raised her head again. Chewing her lip for a second, she leaned slightly towards Sophia's desk. "What can I do, Sophia?"

Sophia didn't seem to hear her for a moment. She was flicking through pages so quickly that Cho doubted she saw a single word upon them. After a delay, she paused, blinked, and spared Cho a glance. "What?"

"What, um... what can I do to help?" Cho frowned slightly, fingers gripping the pages before her. " _Can_ I help?"

Sophia heaved a heavy sigh. She shook her head. "Honestly? Not much more than you are. We can't…" Another sigh. "If we don't get Potter's interview, our print's going to look stupidly sparse tomorrow. It's embarrassing."

"Can we get another story?"

Sophia snorted, returning back to her rifling. "It'd have to be a pretty impressive one. No, we need his interview. And I hate to admit it, but I don't know if we'll get it." She slapped a hand down upon her stack of papers once more. "No. Unfortunately, there's nothing you can do, Cho. Just maybe… well, it's about lunchtime, so I guess you could head off?"

Cho didn't need telling twice. Sophia was as much her fellow worker as her manager, but Cho followed her instructions. It was habit by now.

So she left. In scuttling flight from the din of raised voices, she all but ran from the room as only a junior assistant could. Within minutes, she'd stumbled through the congested hallways towards the nearest Apparition Room and leaped away.

* * *

There had to be something done about that, Cho thought distractedly, rubbing her throbbing forehead again as she headed down the central road in Diagon Alley towards her usual café. The cobbled path was thick with traffic, but not nearly as manic as the corridors of her work. The contrast left Cho all but disregarding her surroundings, lost in thought as she strode.

If only she and Harry had kept in contact.

If only she was friends enough with him to be able to drop a fire-call at any moment to ask for a favour.

If only it didn't _matter_ so much that the Saviour of the Wizarding world had unexpectedly disappeared with an abruptness that left that those abandoned rocking in the aftershock. He hadn't been actually _seen_ for nearly a month, and had been little more than a ghost for half a year before that. Cho knew, just as any sensible and vaguely perceptive person would, that Harry Potter wasn't one for the limelight. He'd claimed as much on frequent occasion, for that matter.

If only, though... If only this once, just for a story.

Stepping into the little café of _Bites and Nibbles_ , Cho plopped down into the nearest available seat with a sigh. _I love my work_ , she thought, and it wasn't an attempt to convince herself but simple fact that distance from the crazy department floor made easier to acknowledge. _And even if Harry doesn't much like it, I'd put my job before him, because it's_ important _._

Cho sincerely believed that. Her time at the _Daily Prophet_ had changed her mind on that much, at least. The news they wrote _was_ important, even if some people turned their nose up at it. It gave people hope. Entertainment. Distraction and, in many ways, leading the way down the path from war. Two years wasn't nearly long enough to forget; healing though their world was, the impact of the anniversary was telling.

So it was that, sipping on a coffee and munching on a deliciously greasy bowl of hot chips, Cho drew away from her resigned discomfort for noise and mayhem and reaffirmed her perspective on her work. In the relative quiet of the café, she prepared herself for the afternoon to come and to do her utmost to support the coming _Prophet_ print.

It was likely that as much as anything that drove her to her feet when she caught sight of Ginny Weasley.

Cho had a chip to her lips. Her coffee was still raised in her hand. The lilt of comfortable pop music hummed just audibly to a distracted ear, and as such, Cho barely heard it. When her gaze drifted absently across the long room of round tables, half-filled chairs and wide-windows, her focus sharpened upon a familiar red head flicking through what looked to be _The Quibbler_ , if Cho's knowledge of media was any indication. She smothered her distaste for the hysterics of said magazine, because Ginny – she was important.

Ginny, who was part of the Weasley family. Ginny Weasley, the youngest child of the acclaimed family of war hero. She'd fought tooth and nail in the Battle of Hogwarts and had stood at the head of the recovery efforts for the school and the Wizarding world since. She'd shown that it was possible to move past that memory, taken to Quidditch as was her nature and, for baffling reasons, had turned down the position in the Holyhead Harpies scout that had reportedly been offered to her a year before. That offer had been given again, reports claimed, and that made Ginny _important_. And _interesting_.

Just as importantly and interestingly, however: Ginny Weasley was the ex-girlfriend and now friend of Harry Potter.

Disregarding her remaining lunch, Cho strode across the room. She wasn't a reporter, lacked the bloodthirsty motivation to pursue that someone like Marietta had developed in recent years, but she would still chase a story. Especially when the _Prophet_ was in such a fix over an absent interviewee. Ginny might know. She might help.

Cho paused alongside Ginny's table and had to school herself to a stop instead of all but launching herself across the table. She grasped the back of the empty chair before her, curling her fingers tightly. Surely seeing Ginny was a sign. A chance. _Surely_ , for such coincidences didn't just _happen_.

Ginny raised her gaze as soon as she halted. For a moment, she only stared up at Cho. Then a smile spread across her lips, wide and welcoming. "Cho? Fancy meeting you here. I feel like I haven't seen you in ages."

Cho nodded immediately. It _had_ been ages. She and Ginny had never been close, and there had even been temporary animosity between them for the fact that Cho had – however shortly – dated Harry. But that had passed. They were comrades, after all. All of the survivors of the Battle were.

"Hi, Ginny," Cho said with a brief flash of a smile in return. "Sorry to bother you, but I couldn't help but notice you sitting over here. Can we talk?"

She phrased it vaguely, for even if she was desperate for Ginny's help, even if the questions practically spilled from her lips – _"Do you know where Harry is? Can you help me? –_ she knew better than to blurt them out. Ginny's smile widened at her words. "Of course. You come here pretty often, right? I've seen you."

Cho blinked. "You've seen me?"

"Yeah. Only sometimes, but yeah, I've seen you."

"Oh," Cho said, absently dropping into the remaining chair. "Sorry, I didn't notice."

"Sorry?" Ginny snorted. "Why sorry? You always seem a little harried when you come in, so I never wanted to bother you. Lunch break?"

Cho nodded with a touch of a self-deprecating smile. 'Harried' was a fairly accurate description of how she usually felt on her break. "Yeah. I don't usually get long, but it helps me retain my sanity."

Ginny grinned. "Well, then, I'd be more than happy to help as a conversation partner if you'd ever need it. There's only so much of _The Quibbler_ I can read before I start to question my own sanity.

Cho could only agree with a fervent nod.

So they chatted. Only briefly, because Cho didn't have long, and Ginny nodded her understanding readily enough. "It's nice here," Ginny said after a time. "Not to crowded, pretty convenient. I like it. It feels... calming, somehow."

Cho didn't like to think of herself as manipulative, but Ginny's words offered the segue she couldn't overlook. "I can understand that," she said. "Today in particular, for instance, is kind of crazy at work. It's nice to get away from it all, if only for a second."

Ginny was smart. Cho knew that. Everyone knew that, because she _was_ a public figure, and such intelligence didn't pass unnoticed. Cho deemed that smartness the reason Ginny's smile grew slightly conspiratorial, as if she knew the tentative manipulation Cho attempted. "The anniversary print's tomorrow, right?"

Cho nodded. There was no reason to hide it. "Yeah. Interviews abound."

"It must be crazy in there," Ginny said.

"It is. Especially this year."

"Really? How come?"

Cho sighed theatrically, shrugging just as dramatically. Marietta would have been so proud of her. "Just that some interviewees we had lined up are kind of… missing."

Silence fell between them. Not complete silence, of course, because the music still played and the muted murmurs of conversation from other diners swirled around them. But between Cho and Ginny, a weight fell.

Ginny slowly raised an eyebrow. The quirk of a smirk touched her lips. "That wasn't very subtle, you know. You may as well have just come out and said it."

If anything, rather than feeling embarrassed for being outed, Cho eased slightly. She wasn't adept at skirting around a situation, prodding without really asking. It was always easier to be direct. Call it her inner Ravenclaw, but Cho had always favoured the direct route to the answers she sought.

Cho shrugged. "I could do that. I just didn't want to annoy you."

Ginny shrugged in turn. Her fingers plucked idly at the edge of her copy of _The Quibbler_. "I'm not annoyed. Just ask."

"Harry," Cho said simply. "We can't find him."

"No," Ginny replied. "I don't expect you would be able to."

"Why?"

"Probably because he doesn't want to be found."

"But you know where he is?" Cho said, frowning.

Ginny shrugged again, and it was as good as an affirmative. "He's never liked the limelight. Let's just leave it at that."

Cho bit her bottom lip, her frown deepening. "Yes, I know. But it's the anniversary –"

"So the world knows," Ginny murmured.

" –and every witch and wizard wants to hear from him," Cho continued without pause. "He is the Saviour, after all."

Ginny's lips twisted slightly. She drew her gaze over Cho's shoulder, staring detachedly for so long that Cho nearly turned to follow the line of her gaze. Slowly, Ginny shook her head. "You clearly don't know him very well if you think he's the kind of person who embraces being a 'Saviour'."

It wasn't a slap in the face. Cho didn't feel affronted for Ginny's words; they were the truth, after all. She did sigh, however, and her shoulders slumped. Ginny's words carried their own weight of finality. "I don't suppose you'll tell me where he is?"

"No," Ginny said easily.

"I couldn't even fire-call him?"

"I don't think that would work."

Cho sighed again. Her fingers tapped absently on the table as she tipped her head backwards. "Well, that sucks. Everyone will be pretty pissed off at work when I tell them."

"Will you?" Ginny asked curiously. "Tell them, I mean. You're not going to let them run around like headless chickens until they figure out the obvious for themselves?"

Cho dropped her gaze to meet Ginny's. "Of course not. It's my work."

"And you like it?"

"Of course I do. And I like the people there. If I can help by letting everyone else know that we'll need to look for another story in Harry's absence, I'll do so as soon as possible."

Ginny regarded her unblinkingly. Her gaze narrowed slightly, thoughtfully, and Cho returned it with little more than resignation. She didn't resent Ginny, just as she didn't resent Harry. It was simply how it was. Her colleagues, her boss, Sophia and everyone else on the editorial floor, would just have to brainstorm for an alternative. It wasn't as though such a situation hadn't arisen before. It wasn't as though –

"I've got a story for you," Ginny said, speaking into Cho's thoughts. "It's not as big as an interview with Harry, of course, but it's something. It might help, at least."

Cho felt her eyebrows rise. "What?"

Ginny flicked the corner of _The Quibbler_ once more. "I can help. With a story."

"Really?"

"Really. I am sort of famous, you know, for reasons I've never quite been able to deduce."

Cho smiled slightly. She'd never gotten the chance to know Ginny particularly well, but she abruptly found she regretted that fact. The kind of dry wit she'd witnessed from her was… nice. That affability Ginny offered her, however – it was what made her ask as she did. "Why would you do that? You don't owe me anything."

Ginny's own smile widened. She drummed her fingers idly on the table as though underlining a point. "Because we're comrades," she said, as though to echo Cho's earlier thoughts. "That's what we do. Right?"

Cho stared for a long moment after that. She was little incredulous and a lot grateful, but she couldn't quite find the words to express it. Still, when she managed a slightly hoarse, "Right," in return, Ginny beamed at her. Somehow, Cho knew she'd been heard regardless.

* * *

_A CHANGE ON GINNY WEASLEY'S HORIZONS_

_With unexpected openness, war hero Ginny Weasley speaks about her decisions for the future. Officially announced barely two months ago, prospective newest member of the Holyhead Harpies confesses an unexpected revelation._

_For the second time, Miss Weasley declines the offer. In the face of floored witnesses, she states, "There's no real reason I don't want to join. I just feel like life is taking me in a different direction."_

_When asked just what the future held in store for her, Miss Weasley smiled. "Well, I've always wanted to help and protect people. I'm thinking of applying to become a mounted Auror. I may as well put my flying experience to use, after all."_

_Further questioning has discovered that Miss Weasley has already been in touch with members of the Auror program to discuss…_

In the resounding clutter of evening's mayhem, the kind of chaos that still held the editorial department in thrall until the last minute of work and sometimes beyond, Cho sat in silence and read. The flurry barely touched her as she smiled with satisfaction.

 _Well_ , she thought, skimming over the draft that had already been skim-read by her superiors before her. _It might not be an interview with Harry Potter_ , _but at least it's something_.

And that something – the something between survivors of war that lasted beyond – was truly special indeed.

 


	9. Neville

~|Twenty-Four Months After the War|~

* * *

For Neville Longbottom, surviving the war was a matter of routine. Routine – and struggling to forget.

He would rise in the morning. Alone, as always, though his gran slept just down the hall. They cohabitated these days; though the war had build a relationship between them deeper than before, they weren't close. They likely never would be.

Neville wouldn't pause at his gran's door as passed on his way to the kitchen. He would cook his breakfast: buttered toast, or a bowl of cereal drowned in milk. Sometimes, he would poach eggs for his gran, leaving them on the table when he left.

Only sometimes, though. Other times, eggs reminded him of the sandwiches the house elves had provided for the survivors the morning after the Battle of Hogwarts. Eggs had never tasted the same to Neville since.

He would dress. Would tie his heavy boots, shrug a jacket on over his shirt, stuff his wand in his pocket. Always his right pocket; Neville would _always_ stow in his right, because it was easier to access. Happenstances – a particularly loud noise, an unexpected spell, the sharp toot of a car – would cause him to flinch as he never had, even as a nervous child.

Neville wasn't the only one. He knew he wasn't the only one who still flinched, even though it was two whole years after the war. He wanted to forget, but…

Neville still stowed his wand in his right pocket. Always.

He would travel to work. Through the Floo – but he could only step towards the fireplace _after_ it was magically green, because fire looked, felt, _smelt_ differently dangerous. Neville wished he could forget that sight, that feeling and that smell, but he couldn't. Ever.

He would stumble from the Floo, pass through his boss's back room, and into the florist beyond. The rich smells would remind him of his days in Herbology - and he loved it. Flora's Florist was a little boutique store that sold as many non-magical as magical plants, and Neville _loved_ that. He would work the morning, take his lunch – oftentimes with Flora herself – and then he work the afternoon churning soil, repotting plants, or pruning the growths growing out of hand.

Neville loved Flora's – except when memory of Hogwarts' greenhouses arose. The crackle of glass. The burst of fire through that glass. Burning and singeing, and the scream of dying plants.

Sometimes Neville had to return home halfway through the day. Sometimes the memories would wrack him and he couldn't escape them. Just like every other survivor, sometimes it was too much. Even after so long, it was too much.

People dubbed Neville a war hero. They called him strong, and even his grandmother agreed. Neville knew otherwise. He knew he'd been 'strong' in the war, but he remembered when he hadn't been, too. He remembered the fear, the terror, the longing to flee. He remembered…

And he wanted to forget. Sometimes, Neville wanted to forget more than anything.

* * *

It happened when Neville opened his trunk. For the first time in years, not since the war, Neville opened his school trunk. The very sight of it called memories forth, of times when Neville _hadn't_ been strong, had been cowardly, had been… inadequate. Facing his trunk was almost as hard as reading the papers could be. The two-year Remembrance Tribute in the _Daily Prophet_ had been a struggle to plough through days before.

But Neville pushed himself. And on that day, two years after the war and to the sound of his grandmother's snores next door, Neville opened his trunk for the first time since it had all ended.

It was unremarkable. Plain. Simple. Nothing confronting as it maybe should have been. Here lay a bundle of robes not quite folded. There, a stack of books that niggled memories of blurred eyes and incomprehension. Neville might be considered a 'war hero' by some, but he'd never been good at school.

His scales.

His Potions kit that still – surprisingly – zapped a burst of old fear through him. Neville almost smiled at that; to think, that Snape could still scare him…

A roll of socks.

His dress robes stuffed in the corner buried beneath quills and inkwells and scraps of parchment, and…

And his Remembrall.

Neville had almost forgotten it. Ironically, he'd almost forgotten that he even had it. The Remembrall seemed like a gift from so long ago, from a dream-like past, and as Neville reached for it with reverential fingers, tingles of reminiscence quivered along his arm to the feeling of slick glass.

First Year. Broom class. Forgetfulness and bullying and resignation and…

So much had changed. Neville remembered that. He almost winced for the ignorance of his childhood self.

It shouldn't have been unexpected that the Remembrall coloured with red smoke in its spherical interior when he reached for it. Despite the clarity of his memories of the war, Neville had been a forgetful child. Somehow, however, he hadn't anticipated the swirls of rising red, because he knew. Neville knew as soon as it arose what that ruddy colour meant.

Kneeling in the middle of his room, before his open trunk spilling forth figments of his past, Neville stared down at his Remembrall. A small smile curled unwittingly upon his lips, because Neville _knew_.

_Maybe I'm starting to forget some of the bad parts after all?_


	10. Harry

~|Twenty-Five Months After the War|~

* * *

How long before disappearing 'to clear his head' became 'running away'?

Harry wasn't sure. He didn't really want to think about it, either. He'd discovered, since the war had ended, that many things were better to avoid contemplating. It was easier. Less painful. Less terrifying, too. Harry had become scared of a lot of things after the war.

He knew some of his friends flinched at loud noises. He knew others couldn't cast a hex without paling for the nostalgia it provoked. Some didn't like flashing lights, couldn't abide fires, cringed at the mention of Hogwarts, or Death Eaters, or Voldemort, even if his name no longer held any power.

But Harry was different. His _fears_ were different. It wasn't the bright flashes, the loud sounds, or the memories that Hogwarts called forth that set a chill in his bones.

It was the thought of the Auror program that hadn't quite clicked. It was the fear of reporters hounding his steps, clamouring for any word he might offer, snatching a picture that he didn't know about until it was printed in the _Daily Prophet_ or some other magazine. It was the pain he still saw on George Weasley's face, that Hermione barely spoke anymore, that Ron threw himself into his Auror role as though he sought to erase Dark magic entirely, and that Harry couldn't do anything about any of it. He couldn't help, and that scared him.

Harry had needed to leave England, to escape, but he wasn't sure if he'd quite accepted that need. It had been two months since he'd left and he still wasn't sure he'd made the right decision. He didn't know if he was ready to return, either. Would he ever would be?

Propping his chin into his hand, Harry stared out the window of the chocolaterie he'd been visiting every day for the past week. The river of cars that descended the street outside was consistent yet silent company, the sound of chugging engines deflected by the thick, expensive glass. He didn't know why he'd picked the chocolaterie. He didn't know what had drawn him to it, no more than he knew why he'd taken a holiday to Australia at all. Hermione's minimal mention of the country from when she'd made her fated trip to retrieve her parents hadn't been particularly tantalising.

Harry didn't know. He didn't have a reason. Just as there was no particular reason for him to have stayed as long as he had, or to travel down from Sydney to Melbourne. Harry didn't… he didn't know anything except…

 _I don't know if I can go back_ , he thought, following a particularly bright car as it passed the window. _I love England, and I love my friends, but it's all…_

After the war, with the Wizarding world still demanding his attention and heroism that he'd never believed he had in the first place, Harry didn't know if love was enough. The question was, if he didn't go back, if he didn't become the Auror his world still expected him to be… what then? What would he become?

A clatter from across the room was what drew his attention from staring at the fading sun outside. Dragging himself from his thoughts, Harry blinked at the young man that was beginning to stack chairs. Was it that time already? Shaking his head, he sat back slightly, sighed, collected himself to rise, and –

"You don't have to leave."

Harry paused. The young man hadn't paused in his stacking, but he was glancing over his shoulder towards Harry nonetheless. He flashed him a smile, wide and white, that stretched across his face amiably. "It's okay. We're packing up a bit early. You're allowed to stay till the last second as usual."

Harry stared. 'As usual'. _That_ was a little embarrassing; Harry had grown to sorely dislike attention over the past few years, so to know that he was still noticed even on the other side of the world, by a complete stranger and Muggle that wouldn't even know of the Wizarding war in Britain, was discomforting.

Ducking his chin, Harry fiddled with the mug before him. "Sorry," he muttered.

"For what?" the man asked, stacking chairs together in a leaning tower.

"For hanging around. Must be annoying when people just don't leave."

The man flashed Harry another grin. He had a good smile. Bright. Harry recognised him vaguely from the past few days. He seemed to be one of the shopfront assistants rather than those working out the back in the kitchens. He was the only one on the floor at that moment, too. "It's nothing. You've just got to know how to subtly suggest that they get out without sounding like a dickhead."

Harry started slightly. Then he laughed, and was almost as surprised for that fact as by the man's words. The man only grinned at him again. "What?"

Dropping his chin again, Harry found himself smiling. "Nothing. I just didn't expect you to say that."

"Just because I work in the customer service industry doesn't mean I'm not a realist," the man said, turning to the nearest table and flipped it upside down with practiced ease to prop atop the one alongside it. "Sure, 'the customer is always right' and all that jazz is the attitude we're _supposed_ to have, but I've worked here for too long to bother. This place attracts people because our chocolate tastes good more than our pretty good manners."

Harry laughed again as the man beamed his picture-perfect smile once more. He leaned against the table before him, folding his arms as he watched him. "You've been working here for a while, then?"

For the life of him, Harry didn't know why he asked. He'd barely spoken to a single person in months but in casual passing. He'd never been a particularly sociable person but for with Ron and Hermione anyway; growing up without friends had always made being surrounded by people a little overwhelming. But even if it was superficially, he found it nice to talk to the man with something more than "Can you direct me to…?' or "I'd like to order a…"

"About six years," the man said, grunting a little as he lifted another table. "If you can believe it. God, that makes me feel old. I planned on finishing up here when I was done with uni last semester, but I guess some things just stick to you. That, and my boss guilt-tripped me into staying."

Harry nodded empathetically. He'd experienced his own wealth of guilt-tripping in the face of the papers and their relentless interviewing. 'You should', 'you must', and 'it would really be a benefit' were arguments that made it a little difficult to turn down such requests. "Fair enough."

"I'll get out of here someday," the man continued. He shuffled across the room, dragging two towers of chairs after him. The floor seemed remarkably wide without the presence of tables and chairs; Harry hadn't realised how big the shop was. "Believe it or not, I've actually got a psych degree."

"Really?" Harry said, eyebrows rising.

"Really. I know, I don't look the type, right?"

Harry didn't reply, even if he did silently agree. He didn't want to pin people with expectations – he'd had enough pinned to himself over the years – but the man looked fairly typical of how Harry imagined many Australians to appear: tall, not big but visibly built beneath the stained apron and slacks of his uniform. His curls and skin were a matching, burnished brown touched just a little by the sun, and he smiled a lot, speaking casually with the slow, easy accent that Harry had grown familiar with over the past months. A psychologist? Not a surfer by trade, if such was a thing? Harry wouldn't have expected that. He silently reprimanded himself for the thought.

"What about yourself, though?" the man asked, pausing in his tidying to lean against the nearest chair-tower and turn towards Harry. "What do you do?"

"Hm." Harry pursed his lips, ducking his chin again. "Good question."

"Taking some time off?"

"I guess you could say that."

"You're a Brit, yeah?" The man continued before Harry could reply. "I always liked pommy accents."

Harry's gaze rose. "Pommy accents?"

The man grinned again. It really was a nice smile. Friendly, maybe a little teasing, but not in a bad way. Harry didn't feel even the barest hint of disgruntlement for it. "How long have you been here?" he asked.

Harry shrugged. "A couple of months."

"A couple of months? That's quite a trip. You been out and about to see much?"

Shrugging again, Harry shook his head. "Not so much. I was up in Sydney before coming down here, but I guess I'm more just…"

"Cruising?" the man offered.

"Yeah."

"Are you staying up at the Rialto, then?"

The Rialto. It took Harry a moment to recall what the man referred to. Then he snorted as he remembered it was the name of the hotel the chocolaterie sat beneath – the towering, impressive, luxurious hotel that would have emptied his bank account in days. It was that hotel, that it reminded him just a little of the older structures in the England he loved, which had drawn him in the first place.

He shook his head. "Hell no. You think I can afford a room up there?" He pointed indicatively to the ceiling.

If possible, the man's smile grew even friendlier. His eyes crinkled at the corners. "Good to hear. I thought you might have been a spoilt little rich kid going on a holiday with your parents' money or something. Not that that's a bad thing, but – you know."

Harry shook his head again. Even if it was true regarding his parents' money, he didn't consider himself especially pampered. "Yeah, no, not me."

The man opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, a young woman's head appeared from the kitchens. She scanned the room briefly before locking her attention onto the man. "You nearly done, Ollie? Could you help Mitch pack away the freezers out the back? He doesn't know what the hell he's doing." She rolled her eyes.

"He'll learn," the man – Ollie? – replied. "Jeez, Louisa, he's only been working here a week. Cut him some slack."

"He asked me three times today where we keep the raw sugar."

"Okay, he'll learn _slowly_ ," Ollie laughed.

Louisa rolled her eyes again before disappearing back into the kitchens. Ollie turned back to Harry a moment later. "The boss calls," he said with a mocking, long-suffering sigh.

"Don't let me keep you, then," Harry said, even if he did feel a touch regretful that his conversation partner – however brief, unexpected, and unasked for he was – would be leaving. He hadn't realised how much he'd wanted to simply talk to someone until that moment.

Ollie didn't leave immediately, however. He regarded Harry for a moment, frowning slightly. "You come here a fair bit," he said, which was the nice way of putting it.

 _Try every day for the past week_ , Harry thought self-deprecatingly. _And for hours at a time at that. He must think I'm weird, to travel all the way to Australia just to sit in a chocolaterie all day._ "Yeah," he said shortly.

"You like chocolate that much?"

Harry smirked. A passing memory of Dementors fleetingly crossed his mind. "Not all that much, actually."

Ollie didn't comment on the fact – that it was probably a little strange, too – except to nod. "You got friends around Melbourne?"

"Not really."

"Got any plans? How long're you staying?"

Harry frowned. He wasn't sure if the questions were innocent or bordering on too intrusive. Why did Ollie care? He shrugged his suspicion aside with a little difficulty; Ollie was clearly Muggle, and they _were_ about as far away from England and its Wizarding world as Harry could get. He had no right to think as much of him. Ollie was probably just being friendly.

"I don't know," Harry said honestly.

Ollie nodded again, as though he'd expected the reply. Then he crossed the room and held out a hand to Harry. "I'm Ollie, by the way. Just realised I didn't introduce myself."

Harry hesitated for only a moment before grasping the proffered hand. "Harry," he said.

Ollie flashed another smile. "Nice to meet you, Harry. I've got a proposition for you."

"A proposition?" The suspicion was back again almost before it had left.

Ollie nodded. "You don't seem to have see much of the city. My friends and I are catching up tonight; why don't you come with us?"

Harry stared up to where Ollie stood before him, smiling expectantly. He was still suspicious, yes, but mostly he felt surprised. "Um… why?"

"Why not?"

"You don't know me."

"So?" Ollie waved a hand in the air as though to disregard the thought. "I'll be the most popular person of the night having brought someone knew and interesting to be ogled over."

"I'm not that interesting," Harry muttered, pursing his lips.

Ollie laughed. "Sure you are. But even if not – seriously, why don't you come? We won't be out too late; I'm working the morning shift tomorrow, so I've got to get up early."

Harry stared up at Ollie once more, frowning just a little. Should he? There was no reason that he _shouldn't_ but for his instinctive suspicion and wariness of just about everyone. Where had that instinct arisen from, anyway? He was sure it didn't used to exist. At what point over the last few years had Harry developed it?

He didn't know, but that momentary surprise, the irritation for his wariness, urged him to agree. He nodded. "Alright, then," he said. "Sure."

Ollie grinned widely. "Awesome. I finish up in about twenty; I'll see you then?"

Harry nodded as, to the sound of Louisa's bellowed, "Ollie!" his unexpected new friend turned on his heel and strode towards the kitchen. He stared after him for a long moment before slowly rising and making his way from the chocolaterie.

It was unexpected, but Harry didn't think it was such a bad thing.

* * *

Sleep retreated slowly and comfortably. That in itself was strange; Harry wasn't used to waking gradually without his head ringing with the residue of whatever dream had afflicted him. Dreams of the unconscious mind were dangerous things – both the good and the bad.

Blinking his eyes open, Harry stared groggily across the blurred expanse of room before him. For a long moment, Harry could only stare, confused and a little disconcerted but not afraid. Then it all flooded back to him.

Following Ollie to the local pub. The cluster of young men and women that greeted Ollie and then Harry himself with open arms and good humour. The drinks that made Harry's nose fizzle from the carbonation. The greasy dinner that tasted better than anything Harry had eaten in months.

Dancing. Getting lost in a crowd. Laughing with people he barely knew but Ollie introduced him to three times that night. "Tony's solid and all when he's not being a prick," he'd said, and "You've met Sarah, Harry? My fiancé? You've met her, right?". How many times had he shaken hands with those same people that laughed through their inebriation?

Harry was a little drunk himself, though not much from the liquor Ollie all but insisted he partake of. For whatever reason - the holiday fever finally hitting him, the enjoyable company, the fact that he had company at all, or that for a time he actually forgot about what he was running away - it felt good. _Harry_ felt good.

"You want to crash at mine tonight?" Ollie had asked as they staggered from the pub amidst the flock of Ollie's friends.

Maybe Harry shouldn't have agreed to Ollie's offer. Maybe he should have been more cautious, recalled how many times he'd been jumped or assaulted with something not quite respect and adoration in the streets back in London. Harry _should_ have been wary – but he wasn't.

So he'd agreed. He followed after Ollie instead of returning to his own hotel room. He'd collapsed onto the couch in Ollie's apartment with barely a care about intrusiveness, or what he might think the next morning. Harry slept and he was actually content.

Blinking the sleepy film from his eyes, Harry fumbled at the floor alongside the couch for where he hoped he'd discarded his glasses the night before. Shoving them onto his face with clumsy fingers, he grunted, pushing himself upright.

Harry couldn't remember much of the apartment from the previous night. He'd barely been aware enough to stumble through Ollie's door after his drunken new friend and collapse onto the couch with a murmured thanks that Ollie likely didn't hear. Turning his head, Harry absorbed his surroundings for the first time.

A living room. A pale rug of thick weave. A glass coffee table smeared with fingerprints and dotted with coasters that gave it a homely rather than slovenly aura. A hallway punctured one wall, while the other side of the room spread into a modest kitchen and an equally modest dining table cluttered with papers, books, and a discarded mug. Directly behind the couch, a window spread, pooling a tidal wave of cool sunshine into the room.

Harry squinted slightly as he peered over his shoulder. A hand rose to idly scratch his head before flopping back into his lap. He felt… strange. The good kind of strange that followed a hectic night and a long sleep with the absence of a hangover to greet him when he woke. Harry was almost surprised to find that he felt no wariness or awkwardness, either for the fact that he'd let his guard down or that he was sleeping in a friendly stranger's house.

A friendly stranger who was, as far as Harry could tell, absent.

Climbing to his feet, Harry spared a moment to poke his head down the hallway, glancing into a vaguely disordered bedroom and a bathroom of clean lines and discarded towel. Ollie was nowhere to be found, and passing by the table, scratching his head once more, Harry determined why.

A note, barely noticeable amidst the clutter, was written in unfamiliar scrawl: _Harry, sorry to take off on you like this. I'm at work until mid-morning. It's only a half shift, so I should be back by about ten-thirty. Make yourself at home if you'd like. Feel free to use the kitchen, cook up a storm, whatever you want. If you need it, I've put the spare key in the pot plant next to the front door. Ollie._

Harry stared at the note. Then he glanced over his shoulder towards the weary pot plant beside the front door, and back to the note. He frowned. Ollie was a little… odd. He'd greeted Harry without prompting, had invited him out for a night to 'show off the glories of our country to you foreign folk' as he'd declared a number of times, and was now giving Harry free run of his apartment. He'd even told him where his key was.

Harry didn't understand. Maybe he was the odd one that he couldn't comprehend such behaviour, but then, who would be so readily trusting? Why would Ollie be so to Harry? Why was he so kind?

Harry didn't know. Still frowning, he placed the note back on the dining table and spun his watch around on his wrist until he could see the face. Nearly nine o'clock. Ollie would be back within two hours, if he kept to schedule.

Harry glanced over his shoulder to the door once more. Should he leave? But then, Ollie hadn't asked him to. He hadn't even seemed like he wanted Harry to go. That was something else Harry didn't understand; how could someone _allow_ an all-but-stranger into their home, let alone encourage them to stay. The idea was utterly conceptually foreign.

But he wouldn't shirk the kindness, for that was what it was. Harry didn't know Ollie outside of what he'd learned of him the previous night, but he liked him, and he was grateful for the unexpected offer his new friend had made. He wouldn't dismiss it by disappearing.

So instead, Harry took himself to the front door and slipped into his shoes. He felt a little worse for wear after sleeping in his jeans and jumper, but it would do. With a final, brief glance around the apartment with its minimal rooms and homey clutter, enough to catalogue for memory, he Apparated with a crack. Why use a key when one had magic, after all?

Ten minutes later and Harry returned. Shopping bags swinging from his fingers, he made his way to the kitchen through the comfortable silence. It could have been presumptuous of him to so assume kitchen rights, but Ollie had said he could. Besides, after all Ollie had done for him, Harry wanted to offer something back.

When Ollie did return, at nearly ten-thirty on the dot, it was to aromatic baking and the hiss of water as Harry scrubbed in the sink permeating the air. Harry didn't hear him enter until he poked his head around the corner of the kitchen's open wall. "What are you cooking that smells like heaven?"

Harry turned and immediately smiled. It was difficult not to; Ollie grinned at him, teeth flashing and eyes bright, and it was infectious. Flicking the tap off, Harry turned, drying his hands on a dishrag. "I hope you don't mind that I used your kitchen," he said.

"Are you kidding?" Ollie stepped into the room. He bent down before the oven, peering through the glass, and inhaled. His eyes closed briefly. "As long as I can eat some of it, you can do what you like. I can't bake to save myself, so this is kind of a big deal. First time this oven's ever been used in years."

Harry's smile widened. "You work in a chocolaterie and you don't bake?"

"Two things," Ollie said, holding up a silencing hand. "One: making chocolate is different to baking."

"Is it?"

"And two," Ollie said, smirking through his words, "yes. That's entirely correct. There's a reason Louisa has me doing the assemblages and serving the customers rather than working out the back."

Harry laughed. He couldn't help himself. It was made even better when Ollie joined in a second later.

His madeira cake, pale golden brown and rising perfectly in its loaf tin, was drawn from the oven barely half an hour later. It wasn't anything particularly profound; Harry had baked it dozens of times when he was a child, when a demand that he 'make dessert, and don't burn a thing' was made of him. The recipe was easy, well liked – or as well liked as the Dursleys ever liked anything of Harry's – and he'd all but perfected it with countless practices. The memory wasn't a particularly fond one, but Harry found himself thankful for the experience when Ollie's appreciation arose.

"Hell, this tastes as good as it smells," Ollie said, all but slumping over his plate as they sat at the dining table. He closed his eyes as he took another mouthful, as though to savour the taste.

Harry shook his head, chuckling. "You're being a bit excessive, don't you think?"

"Are you kidding? You could sell this stuff and people would definitely pay for it." Another bite disappeared with an appreciative groan before Ollie jabbed his fork in Harry's direction. "Fancy sticking around town for a little while and making it for the shop? I think I could get Louisa on board."

"You work with chocolate," Harry reminded him.

"That's a trivial detail, easily overlooked."

"It's not _that_ good," Harry said, taking a bite of his own slice. He couldn't quite suppress the warmth that welled within him, however; he'd been feeling lighter, happier, since he'd met Ollie, and the unexpected night out and just how much fun it had been only intensified that feeling. Harry hadn't realised how down he'd been feeling until he started to feel up again.

Ollie raised an eyebrow as he dangled his fork from his fingers. "'Kay. If you think so. But leave the rest of the cake with me when you eventually go, alright?"

Harry laughed again. "Sure. Consider it a repayment of sorts." He paused, then, "Thanks, by the way."

"For?"

"For putting me up for the night." Harry shrugged. "And for letting me hang out with you and your friends last night. And…" _And for talking to me at Haighs chocolates for no reason other than that you're a nice person_. Harry didn't say that part, however. For some reason, it felt a little too awkward to do so.

Ollie paused in scooping himself another bite. He smiled, not quite as widely as before but somehow more deeply. "No problem. You looked like you needed it."

Harry blinked. "I did?"

With a nod, Ollie lowered his fork. "Maybe it's just my psych major making me overly analytical, but you seemed like you needed a fun night out. Just to chill, you know?"

Harry regarded his plate so he didn't have to look at Ollie. The lightness didn't quite leave him, but his merriment dimmed just a little. "I guess you could say that."

For a moment, Ollie remained silent. Harry picked at his cake without eating it, lost in thought and a touch of embarrassment. When Ollie continued, Harry couldn't quite raise his eyes to meet his. "Trouble at home?"

 _Trouble at home_. Such simple words. So open to possibilities. Was there trouble at home?

Ollie was probably right: the war still hung over Harry's shoulder, though more than two years had passed since Voldemort's defeat. The newspapers still peppered him every time Harry stepped outside, and it was exhausting. He wasn't as close to his friends as he'd once been, each of them slowly turning into different directions, and he wasn't sure he liked it.

Was there trouble at home? Harry thought there was. Just a little bit.

"You could say that," Harry muttered.

"I figured," Ollie said. "Most people don't take a holiday across the world and spend most of it sitting in a chocolate shop."

"To be fair, it's a pretty nice shop," Harry said with an attempt at humour.

Ollie laughed quietly. "True. But probably not the reason you're spending so much time there."

"Probably."

"Can I help?"

Harry raised his gaze to Ollie's. Ollie confused him. Why was he so nice? Why was he such a good person? Why did he help Harry when most people didn't even see that Harry needed help? What incentive could he have, or was it possible he had no incentive at all? Harry didn't know Ollie particularly well, but he was beginning to suspect that he might be the kind of person that simply helped people.

Harry liked him. Surprisingly, because he'd had true enough real friends in his life that it was a momentous occurrence that he make another. He felt comfortable in his company, and that he'd had fun the previous night and woken on Ollie's couch without fear or even any real concern – that meant something.

"I think you've already helped," Harry found himself saying, then cringed as warmth touched his cheeks. "Sorry. That sounded cheesy."

Ollie chuckled. "Maybe a little bit, but that's okay. A little bit of cheesiness is good. And I'm happy to help." Picking up his fork once more, he scooped up another bite of cake. "You're welcome to stick around here as long as you'd like, you know. Until you sort things out. It'll be cheaper than keeping a room in a hotel."

Harry opened his mouth to deny the offer – for as kind as it was, it felt too much like an intrusion – but he bit his tongue at the last second. "You really mean that?" he asked.

"Sure." Ollie grinned around his fork. "Especially if you make me more cake like this. Fancy moving permanently to Australia? I think I could convince Sarah to let you live with us when we eventually get married if you'll be our cook."

Once, such words might have rubbed Harry the wrong way. He'd been all but a slave to the Dursleys in his childhood, and he'd never taken to cooking afterwards, even if he did find it a comfortingly familiar process. At Ollie's suggestion, however, that he spoke lightly and with real appreciation, Harry didn't think it was such a bad offer.

Still, he shook his head, smiling down at his barely touched cake. "Thanks, but even if I do have a bit of 'trouble at home', I think I'd miss it if I was away for too long."

Ollie hummed around his fork once more. "You love it, huh?"

 _Is it love?_ Harry nodded slowly. "I guess I do. I mean, it can be loud, and there are so many people, and those people get in your face which can be horribly annoying –"

"You're really selling it," Ollie laughed.

" – but even so," Harry continued, barely hearing him. "Even if it is a bit of a love-hate relationship… yeah, I guess I do. And I want to go back. Eventually."

Ollie hummed again. "Fair enough. I suppose I can accept that. But you stick around for as long as you like, okay?"

For a long moment, Harry could only stare at Ollie. An amiable grin spreading wider when Harry's own smile touched his lips. He raised a questioning eyebrow and his eyes sparkled just a little bit. Harry didn't understand him; not why he was helping him, nor being so kind or accommodating. But he appreciated it. He was more grateful that he thought himself capable of expressing.

"Thanks, Ollie," Harry finally said, and he meant it with everything he had. "I might just take you up on the offer. If nothing else, you've made this trip worthwhile."

Ollie only popped another bite of cake in his mouth and groaned again with far louder that Harry thought warranted. "You can repay me by giving me this recipe. I swear to God, I'm never going to eat anything else in my life."

The warmth flooding through Harry blossomed into something that tingled in his fingers and toes. He didn't really know all that many recipes to bake, and he'd never considered himself adept at cooking or baking at all. It had been a chore. A necessity.

But Ollie's words… It felt nice to be appreciated for something he'd made, something that he'd done because he _wanted_ to do it rather than because he had no other choice. Maybe it was foolish of him to compare defeating a Dark wizard to baking a cake, but the thought somehow stuck.

Harry loved England. He loved his friends, and he already missed those he'd left behind. But with the weight that had been loaded upon his shoulders after the war and seemed to drag increasingly over the years, he needed to escape it. Just a little something felt lost – blurred, _skewed_ – with that dragging weight.

But this. The cake. His unexpected friend. The smile that still settled upon Ollie's face as he continued to chatter in compliments – he liked this. This wasn't heavy at all.

 _I might be onto something here_ , Harry thought as he turned back to his own cake. It was a revelation arisen from an unexpected direction and one he didn't quite know what to do with, but for the moment, he felt almost peaceful.


	11. Ron

~|Twenty-Six Months After the War|~

* * *

Grimmauld Place had never been welcoming. Maybe it was because of the name. Maybe that name and its history reeked of deterrence.

Or maybe it was because it was tall and looming, its dark walls and grimy windows smothering those within in solemnity. Maybe it was the ever-present discomfort that seemed to settle on the shoulders of everyone who stepped through the door as thickly as the unshakeable dust on the air. Or maybe it was simply that there had been little enough joy in the house for many, many years.

Ron didn't know, and he hadn't spent enough time in residence to determine the root cause. He didn't want to, either, even if his two best friends had hidden between its walls since the war had ended.

Trudging up the front steps, Ron paused as he always did before the door. He rapped the doorknocker, waited as the echo clattered down the long hallway beyond, and then let himself in. He didn't truly know why he bothered knocking. He didn't used to. That had changed when the frequency of his visits slowed. It felt strange to enter unannounced nowadays.

The hallway was as long, dark, and empty as ever. The click of the door behind him was oddly final as Ron shut himself inside, and the dust hung thickly in the air. He shrugged out of his outer Auror robes, hanging them on the questionably clean pegs alongside the door, before starting down the hallway. The floorboards creaked in a way that the thin carpet did little to muffle.

It was a familiar stead. Grimmauld Place held a lot of memories; it seemed that each time Ron stepped inside it's aversive walls, he was assaulted by them. He remembered the holidays after fourth year when he'd first seen it and wondered how anyone could possibly live in such a depressing house. He remembered his year on the run with Harry and Hermione, when they'd spent days plotting and chewing over ideas, formulating plans behind its wards.

He recalled the years since, when he'd initially stayed with his best friends in a sort of room share, but had retreated back to the Burrow when it hadn't worked quite right. That it hadn't had little to do with the fact that Harry had quit his plans of being an Auror and Ron felt abruptly like he didn't understand his friend. It was an exaggerated moment of horror that had dampened in intensity over the years, but that he'd been able to flee his friend's company for a time to contemplate a future career without him had been a blessing.

His leaving also had little to do with his relationship with Hermione, though that he didn't share living quarters with her was probably a good thing. Ron loved Hermione. He thought he loved her more than anyone else in the world. But he sometimes didn't like her all that much, and sometimes she didn't like him, either. He would have as much knowledge as anyone as to whether they were still exclusively seeing one another upon his every arrival. Ron and Hermione's relationship was… complicated, to say the least.

Grimmauld Place held a lot of memories and provoked a lot of conflicted feelings. Did Ron regret moving out years before? No. Not at all, really.

Still, he visited. He visited because he loved his friends. Ron took the time to Apparate over after work because even though Harry had abandoned him to the Auror program over a year before, he was still his best mate. He ensured that he dropped by every few days because, though she confused him, Ron still cared for Hermione. He always would. Even if…

Even if he didn't really understand her. Not anymore. Even if it was as likely that she wouldn't even acknowledge his arrival as she would greet him with a kiss.

Pausing at the bottom of the stairwell that led to the upper floors, Ron cocked his head. He listened for a moment, frowned as he heard nothing, then turned towards the staircase that led down to the basement kitchen. "Hermione?" he called. "Are you here?"

Somewhere, a glass clinked. Something that sounded like a pot clattered. Before Ron could begin down the creaking staircase, a crack that echoed in the otherwise silent house split the air beside him.

Ron snapped his attention to the ancient house elf that was already hobbling into his personal space to prod his leg. "Kreacher," he said by way of greeting.

"The Weasley boy must be keeping his voice down," Kreacher croaked, glaring as he pointed to the portrait of Walburga Black draped in her muffling curtains. "The mistress must not be wakened."

"Pretty sure we've been over the fact that I'm actually not a 'boy' anymore, Kreacher," Ron grumbled, folding his arms over his chest. He was a proud person, he knew, and that he was a man, that he was respected at his work, and that he'd _earned_ that respect, only boosted Ron's pride. Even if it was only by a house elf, he resented that someone would think to undermine him in such a manner.

Kreacher snorted. Could he do that? Were house elves allowed to snort derisively? Ron didn't know, but he supposed Kreacher wasn't exactly a typical house elf. He would probably cuss and a spit a loogie with the most slovenly of witches and wizards. "The Weasley boy thinks himself superior," he muttered, shaking his head. "If only he knew."

Ron scowled. It was only through fierce mental coaxing – _he's just an elf, just a house elf_ – that he withheld from objecting to the derision. "Is Hermione downstairs in the basement?" he asked.

Kreacher's glare sharpened. His eyes darted to the staircase before swinging back upwards to meet Ron's, wrinkled ears flapping. "Miss Granger is working. The Weasley boy should not be disturbing."

"I'm not disturbing, I'm just –"

"One should know when one is not welcome."

"Look, I'm just dropping by to –"

"Miss Granger will be sorely disappointed if her experimenting is disrupted."

Ron sighed loudly in exasperation. Glaring down at Kreacher in return, he folded his arms more firmly. "You know, I seem to recall that you were her most active objector barely three years ago, Kreacher. Pipe down, would you?"

"Miss Granger is a good witch," Kreacher mumbled, more to himself than to Ron. "Even with tainted blood, a good witch. A very good witch."

Shaking his head, Ron turned from him to head down the staircase. Much had changed over the years, the least of it that Kreacher now liked Hermione. He might shun her 'tainted blood', but should any intruder into the house – few as they were – even think about her unfavourably, he would be upon them like a terrier on a rat.

But that had changed. It had changed because Hermione had become as much a part of Grimmauld Place as Harry had. It had changed because Hermione was 'special', because she had learned to respect Kreacher's boundaries, and because she kept to herself and pursued 'proper witching behaviour', as Ron had heard Kreacher term it numerous times.

Ron had an projection of the future once. He recalled it well, could envisage it perfectly, because he'd shared it to Hermione and Harry both barely a week after Voldemort had been defeated. "You and me, Harry, we're going to become the best Aurors in the Wizarding world, you'll see. We'll make history."

Harry had smiled a little ruefully. "Because we haven't already?"

"Shut up. Hermione – you'll become the Minister for Magic someday, if you don't get bogged down with all of your 'spew' stuff along the way. Mark my words."

"My 'spew' stuff?" Hermione had echoed, and though she'd seemed a little miffed, she'd smiled nonetheless.

"We're going places, I reckon. We'll make something of ourselves. And when we have, when Harry's Head Auror or something and Hermione takes over from Kingsley as Minister, we'll all get married –"

"To each other?" Harry had interrupted, bemused.

"- and Hermione and me will have a whole bunch of kids, and Harry will marry Ginny and have a whole bunch of kids too, and they'll all go to school together. They'll probably meet Malfoy's kids too and have a bloody good rivalry before _our_ kids inevitably beat them, and then…"

He'd had it all set. Harry and Hermione had laughed throughout, and though they'd teased Ron, the solemnity that had rested upon them just as it had upon the shoulders of everyone since the war had eased slightly. Ron had been happy for verbalising his thoughts.

But it hadn't happened, and it never would. Harry wasn't an Auror and was never going to be. He'd left on holidays to 'take a break', he'd said, and after 'breaking' for over four months, Ron had begun to wonder if he ever actually intended to come back. Harry had grown distant over the years. Quieter. Introspective, even, and Ron didn't know what to make of it.

Harry wasn't going to marry Ginny either; that much had been apparent after they'd broken up and Ron had heard from both of them in nearly identical turns-of-phrase that they were 'just too different' and that 'I see her more as a sister' and 'him more as a brother'. Which was a little weird, in Ron's opinion. Weird – and disconcerting, because it threw out his ideal further.

Ron was still going to become something. He was still going to stride forth as a proud and successful Auror, and he _was_ making something of himself. His experience in the war, experience that still sometimes kept him up at night, had proven useful in that regard at least. _Ron_ was sticking to how it should be. He seemed to be about the only one, because Hermione… she was taking a different path entirely, too.

Pausing on the bottom step into the staircase, Ron beheld what had become of the kitchen. Or the potions dungeon, as it more correctly resembled. The central table was cluttered with pots, discarded ladles, stirring rods, and chopping boards of waiting ingredients. Two large cauldrons and three smaller ones stood around the open space, and colourful puffs of smoke rose from each in varying shades. The smells – bitter, sweet, acrid – flooded Ron's nostrils.

This was different. _Hermione_ was different, and perhaps the most changed out of all of them. How was Ron to even suspect that she would pursue experimental brewing? How was he to know that she would become little more than a hermit, tucked into the depths of Grimmauld Place and hovering over cauldrons when her nose wasn't buried in books? How could Ron have possibly guessed that, upon travelling to Australia to retrieve her parents, Hermione would instead return empty handed, broken, and inexplicably muttering that she 'couldn't bring them back', that they 'had a life', and 'it wouldn't be fair'.

Ron didn't understand that, but he didn't really need to. Her parents' absence had hit Hermione hard. It had thrown her off her off the tracks she'd laid for herself and onto a whole knew road leading in a direction that Ron couldn't even see, let alone follow.

He stood for a moment just outside of the room and watched Hermione brew. Her hair was a tangled mess, dragged back from her face with fly-aways springing up everywhere. Her cheeks were flushed and a frown crinkled her brow as she leaned over one of the smaller cauldrons to add something green and brittle to the mix. One hand stirred another cauldron while her wand, tucked behind her ear, was briefly juggled by her stirring hand to flick a silent command to a third cauldron to draw forth a billow of orange smoke.

It was incredible to watch. Baffling, but incredible. Ron had never appreciated Potioneering before and still knew next to nothing about it, but he'd watched Hermione enough to understand that she was passionate. Enthralled, even. Potion-making, secreting herself in the basement, and losing herself in crafting experimental concoctions, had become her normal. Just as being an Auror was Ron's.

"Hey," Ron finally said, breaking into the silence between them. A cauldron popped, something fizzled, and Hermione turned from her cauldrons and strode back to the central table to snatch up a chopping board. She didn't glance towards Ron even briefly.

For a moment, Ron waited. He felt the familiar touch of annoyance well within him – that was normal, predictable, sadly expected – but he suppressed it. Hermione was busy. She was concentrating. She was – "Hey, Hermione," he said, a little louder this time.

Still no reply.

With a sigh, Ron jumped down the final step into the kitchen. Hands shoving into his pockets, he wandered across to Hermione's workbench. A detached part of him was aware when Kreacher scurried down after him, grumbling as he went, but he barely spared the house elf a thought. Instead, he took himself to Hermione's side and stopped next to her. "Hey," he said again, peering at the chopping board she'd begun hacking into, brutalising something that looked like a shrivelled pepper. "Did that pepper do you a personal wrong or something?"

"It's not a pepper, it's Fireseed root," Hermione muttered, attention fixed upon her hands.

That hurt a little. Ron would never admit it – he couldn't, wouldn't – but it always hurt when Hermione disregarded him. It had hurt for years, even when they were back in school before the war and she'd ignored him in favour of reading her books. Hunching his shoulders slightly, Ron fought the urge to scowl. "I was just making a joke," he said.

Hermione grunted, still not looking his way. That hurt, too. She'd apparently known that Ron was in the room and still hadn't greeted him. Her disregard had become increasingly normal, increasingly predictable, but… it still stung. It stung a lot.

Swallowing a grumbling retort, Ron followed as Hermione scooped up her chopping board once more and strode across the room. "How's it going down here?" he asked by way of making conversation.

"It goes," Hermione replied, sweeping the peppers – the _roots_ – into the large cauldron puffing blue smoke. That smoke instantly belched in a burst of purple vapours. "I'm concentrating."

"Anything I can do to help?" Ron offered, even though he knew next to nothing about potions. Even though he was tired, too, and after a long day of paperwork and drudgery at his desk, Ron just wanted to relax. He wanted to… with Hermione, he'd planned to…

"No," Hermione said shortly, snatching her wand out from behind her ear and flicking it towards one of her smaller cauldrons to smother the fire spluttering beneath it. "I just need to concentrate."

"I just thought…"

"Ron."

"Hermione, it's Friday." Ron couldn't quite keep the annoyance from his voice. He _was_ annoyed. Friday should be their evening spent together, not Ron walking in Hermione's shadow as she ignored him in favour of her potions. It was tradition. It was – had become – their Friday norm. Or it _should_ have been. "We always go out to dinner at the end of the week, so I thought you'd want to –"

"Ron," Hermione said, finally turning towards him if only briefly before she skirted around him and started back to her workbench. "I'm really busy right now. I can't just up and leave in the middle of an experiment. It won't take long, and it's not like you can't wait if –"

"It's bloody nearly eight o'clock, Hermione," Ron snapped. He winced as soon as he'd spoken, expecting Hermione to shoot him a sharp retort in return, but she only spared him a glance before dragging another tray of half cut gelatinous gunk towards her. He sighed as she returned to hacking vigorously once more; he almost would have preferred had she barked back at him.

"Fine," he said. "If you're busy, fine. I'll just leave you to it."

He didn't want to. Not really. Even though he was annoyed – angry, even – and was almost always was irritated by how little interest they shared for one another nowadays, he didn't want to leave. But before he could retract his words or, better yet, offer a compromise, Hermione nodded shortly. "Please do," she said, frowning at her gunky mess.

Ron felt his jaw tense. His hands balled into fists. With an effort, he held his tongue and reserved his scowl for Kreacher, who had no qualms about scowling right back at him. Then, with a curt nod of his head, Ron turned on his heel and strode towards the staircase. He climbed away from his once, sometimes, sort of girlfriend without a backwards glance.

The saddest part was that it didn't feel all that unexpected. A part of Ron knew that, with the road Hermione was taking, the trail Ron charged down, and the wandering route Harry had chosen that even then found him across the other side of the world, it wasn't unexpected at all. If anything, it had been a long time coming. Predictable. Had become their new normal, even.

 _How long before 'the three of us' isn't us three anymore?_ Ron didn't know, but as he left Grimmauld Place barely minutes after arriving, it was without a lingering trace of anger and more than a little melancholy settling upon his shoulders. This wasn't what he'd speculated, but it seemed nonetheless inevitable.

 


	12. Molly

~|Twenty-Nine Months After the War|~

* * *

Molly Weasley was a mother. She was adept at multitasking. She was a proficient carer, knew the basics – and the complexities – of first aid, and her Levitation Charms had caught many a haphazardly thrown object in the past.

Molly was proud to be a mother. She loved that she could run her home with barely a thought, could protect those she loved and care for them even when they no longer lived with her. She was proud of what her children had become, how they'd endured, and how they maintained a firm grasp of one another despite the distance that lay between them.

Just as fiercely as her pride, however, Molly loved. She was a lover and a fighter, but mostly a fighter for her love. She cared – and that was what made her a good mother.

She knew that Bill was embarrassed for his scars, even if he never said so, and without mentioning the necessity to his young wife, Molly sent him a balm to ease their redness. _She_ wasn't ashamed of them, but she wanted him to be happy.

She knew that Charlie still shamed himself for living so far away, and she made the effort to write him every week simply to reassure him that he wasn't forgotten. That Molly loved him just as much if not more for following his passion. She was proud of him.

She knew that George had almost given up his shop after the war and she'd talked with him for a long night about just why. She knew that Ron bemoaned visiting the Burrow every weekend but needed those visits in order to recuperate after the stress of Auror work, and so she 'insisted' he come regularly. He never acknowledged the fact, but he held her in an embrace upon every visit for long moments.

Ginny needed frequent Floo calls more than she did letters, so Molly called every morning. Her other children, Harry and Hermione, needed their space and their comforting when that space was overcome, so Molly gave it as their own parents couldn't. Because Molly knew. She understood. She was a mother, and she cared.

She cared even for the children that were no longer able to be cared for.

On October the thirty-first, Molly was caring as she bustled around her cosy kitchen. She cared as she clattered bowls upon counters, flung utensils into her sink, and pounded dough with her rolling pin. She cared as she mashed pumpkin into a bright orange mush, and she cared as she tossed her pies together in the spirit of Halloween.

Molly Weasley cared for her children with every ounce of her being as she cooked more pumpkin pies than could possibly be eaten by her own family.

It was when the sweet, warm scent of pie flooded her kitchen – and her living room, the stairwell and beyond – that George arrived. The afternoon of the thirty-first hadn't quite faded, which meant the family wouldn't be arriving in their masses just yet. But George arrived early, just as he had the previous year, and the year before that. The crackle of his entrance through the Floo sounded from the living room, and Molly barely paused to stick her head through the doorway as she baked.

"George? Welcome home, love."

It wasn't his home anymore. Or at least, the Burrow was only one of George's homes. Yet as always, he smiled as he entered the kitchen and wrapped his arms around Molly from behind. Once, he wouldn't have been quite so affectionate with his expressions of love. That had changed, though. A lot had changed with the war.

"That smells incredible," George said as he released her, crossing the kitchen as Molly kneaded another batch of dough on the countertop. He leaned over the adjacent counter with its spread of half a dozen steaming pumpkin pies. "Just in time for Halloween."

"There's one for each of you to take home tonight," Molly said, pointing at her pies with her rolling pin. "And I know how many there are, so don't you try stealing more, my boy."

George grinned over his shoulder. Molly's heart warmed at the sight of it; not so long ago, he hadn't been capable of smiling at all. "Harry's still on holidays, so he doesn't need his."

"George."

"I'm pretty sure Ginny's going to be late from work, too."

" _George_."

"And Charlie doesn't _really_ need his pie sent special delivery, does he? Really?"

Molly sighed, but she was smiling fondly as she shook her head. "You're already taking two for yourself. Don't be greedy."

"But pumpkin pies are my favourite."

They weren't. Or at least they didn't used to be. Molly knew that much, just as she knew that _George_ knew. She was a mother, and she _knew_. It wasn't George who'd liked the pumpkin pies. It wasn't George that she insisted on making an extra pie for, either.

Molly cared for all of her family, even those that no longer needed her care. Sometimes, caring went as far as blessing the memory of the children she'd lost.

"Of course they are, dear," she said, and they both knew it wasn't George she spoke to.


	13. Harry & Ginny

~|Thirty-One Months After the War|~

* * *

Harry wasn't sure when it had started. He didn't know when his understanding of himself had slowly begun to change. He didn't even know what had been the trigger to initiate such an understanding.

He _did_ know, however, when he began to realise the truth about himself. It might have been confronting, but… how could such an understanding be disconcerting when it arose so slowly? When it asked for nothing but casual acceptance. Harry didn't have to _change_ ; he was simply opening a new door.

Like most young adults, his trip around the world was undertaken on a spur of the moment decision. To escape. To get away. To seek fulfilment that his life in the closeted glory of his home country couldn't quite manage. Except that, for Harry, it was more of an 'escape from the world by constantly running'. When that running had slowed to a sedate stroll, when his mindset shifted and time began to slow… that's when the niggles of realisation began.

It started with Ollie in Melbourne, Australia. Ollie had a wicked smile, bright and wide and infectious. His laugh was just as much if not more so, and it was his company that felt just a little different to his friendship with Ron, with Hermione and Ginny, that struck Harry. He thought he would always remember Ollie, even if he'd spent barely two weeks in his company; some things couldn't be forgotten, and especially not when they left such an impact.

There was the man he'd hitchhiked with around New Zealand. Scott, his name was, though he insisted upon being called 'Snickers' for reasons not wholly explained or understood. Harry had always been envious of those taller than himself, of those that carried just a little more breadth across their shoulders, but meeting Snickers was the first time he realised that envy wasn't the only feeling that arose with such an observation.

There was the group of young men and women he'd met in Singapore where he'd unexpectedly shared a kiss with each and every one of them. The brother and sister he'd shared a room with in Bangkok purely for the sake of convenience. The boy nearly two years younger than him who'd shown him around Mumbai when he'd spent three weeks in India, or the one Harry had stumbled across three times when travelling about Ankara in Turkey but had never actually spoken to. Harry hadn't known if that person was even a man or a woman, for it was indiscernible as much from distance as any styling on the person's part. He only knew that they were the most beautiful person he'd ever seen.

It wasn't until he woke up in an all-but-stranger's apartment in Rome, however, that Harry finally grew to understand the reality that was slowly dawning upon him. When he woke on a couch and stared blearily across a wide room awash in morning light, when he heaved himself to sitting and glanced over his shoulder to the sound of clattering behind him. It was only when he stared at the man he only knew as Nik where he pottered around the kitchen, rummaging as he threw together what appeared to be breakfast, that it actually struck him. Harry barely knew Nik, had simply taken up the offer of a couch to sleep on when he'd shared a few drinks with him at a pub two blocks away – but that didn't stop him staring.

He stared at the darkened skin of Nik's bare shoulders as it seemed to absorb the morning light.

He stared as Nik reached overhead and the muscles rippled in his back.

He stared as, with an elegant turn, Nik glanced over his shoulder and grinned at him in greeting of flashing white teeth, crinkling eyes, and a murmured, " _Buon giorno_."

Harry couldn't help but smile back, just as he couldn't suppress the blossoming warmth that flooded his chest. He shook his head as he straightened from his seat on the couch and crossed the room to help Nik in the kitchen. _That_ was the moment of real realisation, and Harry was torn between opposing moments of incredulity.

 _Bloody hell_. _Well, I guess that explains a lot_.

* * *

Short. Succinct. To the point. Letters were often better that way, Harry thought. He rarely wrote otherwise unless guilted into doing so.

The letter he had to send to one of the only people he _could_ send it to was just as much.

 _Ginny_ ,

_I think I've had a bit of an epiphany moment. As it happens, I might have maybe realised one of the reasons we broke up. Only one of them, mind, but I'm pretty sure it's a contributing factor._

_As it turns out, I think I may not be as straight as I'd previously thought myself._

_Harry_

* * *

Half a continent away, sprawled on her bed and ignoring her alarm that chimed in a reminder that work began in less than an hour, Ginny stared. She shook her head as she peered up at the scrap of a letter held in the air above her – really, it barely even warranted the title 'letter' it was so short – and she snorted. Nearly two weeks since she'd heard from him, and this was all she got? Harry had been travelling for months, would likely miss Christmas at the Burrow, and _this was it?_

Even so, despite her disgruntlement, Ginny couldn't help but smile. Or more than smile, even; it was a fully-fledged grin that spread across her face as she read and re-read the letter to most completely capture Harry's thinly veiled incredulity at his self-discovery.

She sat up. She shook her head again. Stretching her arms overhead, Ginny chuckled to herself before rising to her feet to begin her morning pre-work routine. She and Harry had broken up years ago, and any awkwardness that may have existed were long faded in the face of the familial friendship that endured, but this… This was a turning point. It was important because, of all the people in the world, Harry had chosen Ginny to confide in.

Had Ginny cared a wit that one of her best friends and ex-boyfriend had abruptly realised he was a member of the queer community, it would have been dissolved by the pride the welled within her instead. She wasn't even sure if any existed at all. If anything, Ginny just felt… happy.

Clutching the letter to her chest, she was still smiling as she scratched out a quick letter in reply and sent it off with the waiting tawny owl. She watched it leap through her window, and even when she turned from her room, that smile continued to play upon her lips.

* * *

_Harry,_

_First off, I'm going to scold you for both not writing for me for so long and then sending such a short one as that. Shame on you._

_Secondly, about your letter: finally. It's about time you realised._

_All my love,_

_Ginny_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you for (still) reading! I hope you liked the chapter.   
> For those of you who are interested - this has just been a bit of a pet project of mine, the chapters all elements of a fortnightly competition, and as such, I'll probably be bringing the story itself to a close when the competition does. If you have any requests for characters you'd like to hear from, please let me know and I'll do my best to write them!


	14. Pansy

~|Thirty-One Months After the War|~

* * *

Centenary Hall was an old structure. Its age was evident from the arching ceilings, elaborate cornices, and heavy stonewalls that was only ever masked by festive banners depicting booming titles and bold directions. On that day, the first of November, the walls that reverberated with sound was strung with more banners than empty walls.

MODIFICATIONS TO TRADITIONAL TRANSFIGURATION

CHARMING INVENTORS

MUGGLE-WIZARDING TECHNOLOGICAL ADAPTATIONS – THE NEW WORLD

Or, foremost and loudest of all: WELCOME TO THE FESTIVAL OF INVENTIVE MAGICS!

The magical announcements that routinely shouted from each banner were unnecessary, in Pansy's opinion. If she were to think of any signage that warranted bellowing declarations, it would be: EXIT THIS WAY.

It wasn't that Pansy disliked being around people, of which there were countless mulling throughout the hall. It wasn't that she disliked being crowded, which was lucky, given that the festival was so populated as to be stifling. It wasn't even that Pansy objected immensely to the clamouring voices, the bubbles of conversation unintelligible in their surplus, and the tingles and blasts and clatters of magic that echoed around her.

What Pansy hated, and what had her noting the exits as soon as she entered a crowded room, was the glances turned her way. The glares. The scowls, the sniffs, the sharp jerks of heads or, even more annoying, the deliberate bumps into her shoulder or the trips of a foot through her own. Pansy had once thrived upon swimming among the masses and exerting her superiority over them, but now?

It was a little difficult to assert such superiority when the majority of the world hated her.

Not that Pansy wasn't used to it. For three and a half years it had been the same: the tangible hatred, the disgust for the sins of her parents, the shadow of a Dark Lord that she'd never met nor declared loyalty to hanging over her shoulder. Pansy was used to the world's hatred, and while it was never easy to be rebuffed and repulsed, she endured. And ignored.

Turning from the stall before her, Pansy drifted further down the aisle. Shaking her head, she sniffed in disdain. _How such trinkets warrant a whole stall-space is ridiculous_ , she thought, casting aside the transfiguration charm bracelets that supposedly adapted to 'whatever garments are worn by the wearer'. It was ludicrous, because the festival was supposed to be for _real_ inventions. For _important_ things. Once, Pansy might have considered adaptable bracelets important - now she knew better. The foolish lucky charms were nothing short of a waste of time.

 _I'm not spending galleons to promote them in_ my _shop_ , she thought, just as she had upon visiting countless other stalls. Clutching her notepad to her chest, quill hanging unused from her other hand, Pansy swept towards the next stall, dodging the crowd that saw her, recognised her, and refused to get out of her way.

Pansy didn't care. She was working.

Modified magical paints. Half-hearted attempts at magic-obliging technologies. Quick Quotes Quills that altered vocabulary depending upon context. Magical garments, the latest cauldrons of impregnable strength, and elixirs that were targeted towards hair loss 'at the first sign of thinning, so don't delay!'

Pansy had seen hundreds of inventions before. This was the third year she'd visited, and it was proving to be as unremarkable as those before. The latest inventions were nothing if not a drawcard to every shop owner, potential funder, university representative, and private collector in England, and many of those inventions _were_ leapt upon in an instant.

But not by Pansy. Her store was small, specialising in the art of providing exactly what her clients wanted. Whether it was a love potion that had long been taken off the market for its illicitly nature or an ornate ring that could magically conceal a deadly powder in its stone, Pansy would supply it.

That was what she did. It was who she was. It was all she truly _could_ be when the world shunned people like her. Pansy had few enough real friends after Draco had disappeared from the Wizarding world to 'get away' and Blaise had moved away to live with distant relatives. Her clients, though – they might not be friends, but they were loyal. Pansy would do her best to provide what they needed because they were _hers_.

Striding – and dodging – through the crowds, Pansy grazed past the stalls, all self-contained and proud of their foolish attempts to impress. She barely glanced at an open-faced stand with a display of something distinctly shiny, because it was clearly _too_ shiny and that meant it was fake. She turned her attention from a stall of cauldrons, one billowing pale gusts of violet-smelling purple smoke, because anyone with a brain knew that violet smoke and violent perfume was a recipe for disaster. Pansy veered away from a slightly more crowded stall, skirting the animated audience, and turned a corner around another stall with a sedate looking man holding something distinctly Muggle.

Pansy snorted. She didn't loathe Muggles anymore. Not entirely. In the years since the war, her ostracism from Wizarding society had made it necessary to dabble in less magical regions. Pansy even had her favourite coffeeshop – Muggle – and her hairstylist – also Muggle – that she'd discovered in her disconsolate wandering through London's streets. She could appreciate their skills, even if she knew magic was superior.

But to bring something that she recognised as being a walkie-talkie to the festival? Was the man a fool? Walkie-talkies were surely on their way out. Hadn't he heard of the newer mobile phone devices?

Shaking her head, Pansy dodged out of the way of a charging woman with a pointed hat and the determined face of a sales rep. The woman didn't appear to see her, which Pansy supposed was a good thing; she probably would have hissed like an indignant cat if she recognised her, which the Wizarding world and its persisting articles on Death Eater families and 'Where Are They Now?' ensured. Composing herself, Pansy strode onwards in her vague wandering. She hoped to find _something_ worth her while, but…

Little. There was very little.

Pansy's notepad was spotted with barely a dozen sorry excuses for inventions by the time she drifted to her starting point. Beside the glowing 'EMERGENCY EXIT' sign, she drew her gaze down the list and clicked her tongue.

"Something the matter?"

Frowning, Pansy shook her head. She didn't glance towards Theodore where he lounged behind his own stall, his feet kicked up on the counter as though he didn't care what potential clients might think of his slovenly behaviour. He likely didn't; the Nott family had escaped the war far from unscathed, and he'd developed his own version of thick skin.

"Nothing's wrong," Pansy said, not bothering to raise her voice over the crowd that still clamoured around them. "Just disappointed, as usual."

"You're a hard woman to please," Theodore said. "Some would say too hard."

Pansy shot him a glare, but he only smiled languidly in reply. Theodore was one of precious few people – of which Pansy included herself – who disregarded the hatred of those around them. He smiled when people glared, laughed when they spat at him, and persisted when the world told him that he hadn't a chance.

He still didn't have a chance; not to become something, or be someone. It was a shame, Pansy thought, because he was one of the smartest people she knew. His own inventions were spectacular in their own right, if a little flamboyant and pretentious in their triviality.

Not that Pansy would ever tell him that. She didn't want him to get a bigger head than he already had. "Shouldn't you be working?" she asked flatly, gesturing towards the cages behind Theodore. "Your birds aren't going to sell themselves."

Theodore turned his smile up towards the shining cages. The little translucent, conjured ghost-birds within were beautiful, glaringly bright, and sang melodious tunes. They made the ideal pets for any wishing to benefit from such creatures without the mess of their leavings. Theodore, as far as Pansy knew, was the sole possessor of the charm to produce them. It was a matter of prejudice that he didn't have more customers.

"They'll draw the attention of those who deserve them," he said, flapping a disregarding hand.

Pansy raised an eyebrow. "You're exceptionally blasé for one whose next meal depends on how well they sell."

"Not at all. You'll feed me before I starve."

"I most certainly will not."

"You care about me."

"Not hardly." Pansy sniffed and turned her attention aside in disdain. She knew she wasn't fooling Theodore, but she had an image to maintain.

Theodore chuckled, barely audible over the babble of the crowd. "Anyway," he said after a moment, "how did it go on your end?"

"It's none of your business," Pansy said, dropping her gaze down to the disappointing list on her notepad. _Out of nearly one hundred stalls and thrice that many inventions, that I could only find this many even remotely interesting…_

"Nothing?"

"I found a sculptor who builds semi-animated glass structures," Pansy said, absently leaning against Theodore's stall counter.

"Fascinating," he replied with another chuckle.

"And a jeweller making fluid trinkets solely out of gaseous potions."

"Remarkable."

"Some fool is attempting magically-compliant televisions that _might_ work if he tries harder."

Theodore hummed, rocking back on his chair. "How droll. And yet unoriginal."

"Aren't they all?" Pansy said, shaking her head. She lifted herself to sit upon the edge of Theodore's counter. "There's a woman promoting half-forgotten spells she's apparently redesigned from her centuries old grimoire, though."

"Bullshit," Theodore said with a bark of laughter that turned more than a few heads. "They'll be exactly the same as the originals."

"I know," Pansy said, rolling her eyes. "I'm not an idiot. I didn't even put her name down."

"Let me see," Theodore said, holding out his hand for her notepad.

"No."

" _Pan_ -sy."

"No. Bugger off."

Theodore pouted for all of two seconds before smirking. He propped his lanky arms behind his head, rocking backwards on his chair once more. "You know there's no such thing as anything truly _new_ ," he said.

Pansy arched an eyebrow. She flicked a glance up to the gold cages hanging above Theodore's head. "Your birds?"

"I'm the exception. And they have their flaws."

"More flaws than the cellular phones that the fool across the room is attempting to imbue with magic?" Pansy asked, waving a hand in the general direction of said stall.

"Well, at least phones don't poop on you," Theodore said.

"Your birds don't poop," Pansy pointed out. "That is, in fact, one of your primary selling points."

"Regardless," Theodore said, raising his voice as though in denial of her backhanded compliment. "What I'm _saying_ is–"

"Oh, you were saying something of merit?"

Theodore rolled his eyes before nudging Pansy with his foot. He seemed deterred not at all by the sharp smack she spared his loafer with her quill. "Shut up for a moment, Pansy. I'm saying something important."

"Tell me to shut up once more, Nott, and I'll gut you like a pig."

Theodore ignored her, which Pansy knew he did deliberately. Disregard had always been her Achilles' heel. "What I'm saying is, have you considered maybe lowering your standards a little?"

Pansy's eyebrow twitched higher.

"Only a little," Theodore said before she could hiss at him. "To the improvements upon the _now_ rather than the impossible."

Pansy narrowed her eyes. She pursed her lips for a moment before sighing. "Alright, just spit it out?"

"What?" Theodore cocked his head.

"What are you getting at?"

"I'm sure I don't know what –"

"Nott."

Theodore smirked again, rocking dangerously on his chair, and Pansy was almost tempted to topple him over. "Alright, then. Have you had a look over on the western wall?"

"Of course I have," Pansy said. She batted Theodore's shoe with her quill once more. "I've been everywhere. Why?"

"The western wall is for the experimental college students or whatever," he said vaguely. "You should check it out."

"I already have."

"And?"

"And nothing. They're all amateurs of little interest."

Theodore cocked his head back the other way. "Even Granger?"

Pansy blinked. She frowned. A pause, and then: "What?"

"Granger," Theodore repeated. "You've seen her stuff?"

Granger. Hermione Granger. Witch Extraordinaire and love of the Wizarding world for her part in the war. She was an icon, a paragon of goodness, intelligence, and bravery. Pansy had hated the girl in school, and she didn't like her any more since they'd both stepped outside of Hogwarts for good.

Or she didn't think she did. Pansy hadn't seen Granger in years, and all she'd heard of her of late were speculations from the papers. Granger was, it seemed, somewhat less of an celebrity than she once had been. Unobtrusive, even, and rarely she appearing in public. If Pansy didn't know better, she would think that Granger was actively hiding from prying eyes. Sort of how Potter had since the war had ended.

Which was ridiculous – wasn't it?

Scowling, Pansy folded her arms, tucking her notepad and clipboard back against her chest. "What about her?"

Theodore shrugged. "She's got some interesting stuff."

"So?"

"So, you should check it out."

 _I deliberately missed her stall_ , Pansy grumbled to herself. _Of course I would. Why the bloody hell would I go and see_ her _?_ Old grudges died hard, and the new ones that arose to take their place were just as hard to shake. Pansy's resentment towards the 'good' witches and wizards was something of a personal issue. Even disregarding the past she'd shared with her old classmates and rivals, she hated them for what they had _now_. Granger was likely as stuck-up, bossy, and arrogant about her own skills as she'd ever been.

Instead of spluttering like a fool, however, Pansy sniffed and shrugged. "I have no interest her."

"She brews potions now, you know," Theodore said.

"I don't care."

"She's not exactly making a name for herself, but I hear she's selling."

"And you're telling me this because…?" Pansy trailed off with as much casualness as she could muster, scanning the crowd around her without really seeing them.

"Apparently they're pretty good. Pretty… _original_."

Pansy shot Theodore a sidelong glare. She pursed her lips. "What do you want?" =

"Hm?"

"Why are you pushing this? Why do you want me to go and see Granger so badly?"

Theodore gave an emphatic shrug. "There's nothing in it for me, but –"

"Of course," Pansy interrupted with a snort. "But."

" _But_ ," Theodore continued. "If you _do_ like her wares, get me a sample of her Hangover Draught, would you? For my father."

"Your father's a pathetic drunkard who's barely out of his drinks long enough to get a hangover," Pansy pointed out.

"True," Theodore readily agreed, then sighed. "You know, apparently she's changed. A whole lot of the old crew from our year have. Or so I've heard."

Pansy didn't care. She shifted her gaze to the sea of stalls and wanderers once more and fathomed that she might even be able to see Granger beyond it. She could picture it: the smartest girl in her year, babbling away about her 'miracle Hangover Draught' that likely did exactly the same thing a _normal_ Hangover Draught did but instead came in shades of blue.

Pansy didn't care. She wouldn't take a look. Instead, she shook her head sharply and slid down from Theodore's counter. With a final tap of her quill upon his shoe, she planted her hands on her hips. "I don't care if she's changed or not. If you want the Draught, go and get it yourself. But if not…" She trailed off expectantly.

Theodore heard her unspoken words and immediately rose from his seat. "About time we leave. I feel like I've been waiting for you for years."

"Your discomfort is noted," Pansy said, skirting his counter and drawing her wand to begin packing the stall away. They would be the first to leave, and likely by hours, but Pansy didn't care. Theodore wouldn't either. "Why you bother coming to such events I'll never understand."

"Naturally, I come for your sake," Theodore said with an affable grin.

"Shut up, you idiot," Pansy replied. It was all she could say, because the truth of his words still touched her. She did help him pack away, however, and they walked side-by-side from Centenary Hall to the often glaring attention of the wanderers that milled around them.

Pansy didn't care. Or she told herself she didn't, for it was easier that way. Besides, what did she care about them when she had Theodore? He was, in all truth, her only remaining friend, and she was happy to have him. Friends were needed for the excursions she had to take – and deny it all she might, Pansy knew she had to take them. Her store wouldn't run itself.

They left the hall, the poor excuses for inventions exploding in the air behind them. Pansy didn't look back.


	15. Luna

~|Thirty-Five Months After the War|~

* * *

Night fell like a blanket slowly draped. With it, the typical dancing steps began. It was always the same, almost predictable – just like the fact that every player in that dance would play their part.

Blissful delight was the only response to such a familiar dance. Luna adored all of her sheltered friends for their participation.

It started, as it almost always did, with a shout that wasn't quite a shout echoing up the stairwell towards Luna's room. "Luna! Sweetheart, I'm turning in for the evening."

Blinking, Luna drew herself from her musing. The canvas spread before her shifted and retreated from where it had been a blank spread of possibilities back into the square frame of a future artwork. The smears of paint that speckled it, smears Luna couldn't even remember adding, were barely the beginnings of what it would be. If the painting formed as she _thought_ it would, then –

"Luna? Can you hear me?"

Spinning on her heel, Luna trotted to her bedroom door. Sticking her paintbrush behind her ear, she poked her head through the doorway. "Is it that time already?" she called down the spiralling stairwell of her house.

"Nearing nine o'clock, it is," her father called back.

"Well, to think!" Luna said to herself. Shaking her head, she glanced across the clutter of her room to her half-curtained window. Beyond, spreading behind the frost adorning the glass, was what indeed appeared to be nightfall. _How did I miss that?_ Luna asked herself, though it wasn't much of a question. She often missed night falling. It took her father's usual early retreat to bed to shake her into action sometimes.

"I'd best be putting everyone to bed," she called down the stairs once more, though more to herself than to her father.

"Make sure you tuck everyone in," her father replied as she started down the steps.

"I will."

"And give Maggie a kiss on the head. She likes that," he continued as she spun herself on the bannister, thumping through the living room before descending from the second landing.

"I know. I will."

"And don't forget to lock up after yourself," Xenophilius said as she skidded to a stop before him in the middle of their little round kitchen.

"I know, Dad," Luna said, stretching up onto her toes to press a kiss onto his thin cheek. He peeked her own back, patting the side of her head as he did so as though she were still a small child. "Wasn't I the one that reminded you first about locking up?"

Xenophilius smiled benignly. He'd aged much over the years, but he was still kindly. Still the same old Dad, as Luna often reminded him. His night robe was always just a little stained from its pristine whiteness, and he still always wore mismatched slippers. It was a habit Luna had adopted from him because she agreed with the sentiment that, "Sometimes, it's just impossible to choose which pair to wear, so why not wear one of each?"

"Goodnight, sweetheart," he said, patting her head once more before drifting past her towards the stairwell. "Let me know if you need a hand, won't you?"

"I'll be fine, Dad," Luna said, because she always said as much, even if she never needed it. She fluttered her fingers at him as he ascended the stairs, and he fluttered his own in return. Just as he always did. Just as was almost routinely predictable.

Then Luna took herself to the pantry. She tugged the curved doors open and dropped to a squat on her haunches, digging through the boxes and sacks always kept at the bottom because to leave them _outside_ of the pantry was to risk inviting certain… _visitors_ into their house. Luna loved their visitors, but her father had always been disinclined towards allowing quite so many to infiltrate their home.

Loading her arms full of many of those boxes and sacks, each labelled according to need, Luna rose to her feet, nudged the pantry door closed behind her with a foot and wobbled to the front door. It was a struggle to muscle her way through, but she managed. She always did. She'd grown adept at this particular routine.

The night air, crisply cool and with a bite of the frost that had painted her window, struck Luna as she scuffed down the front steps. It was almost eerie just how quickly darkness had fallen, but she was used to it. Every night for years she'd taken the trip out from the comfortable warmth of her home and into the yard beyond. The residents of her shelter weren't going to put themselves to bed, and many of them needed their nightly snacks to be able to settle at all.

Once, 'the Rookery' as Luna's father often called their house had been starkly alone upon its hill on the outskirts of St. Ottery Catchpole. Once, it had appeared nothing if not an outpost, a lighthouse peering across the sea of gentle hills that stretched between it and the little town that Luna rarely visited.

Once – but not anymore. Not since Luna had begun allowing her shelter residents to stay a little longer than hospitalisation and recovery deemed necessary. Not when the hodge-podge scattering of sheds and lean-tos that had been their temporary homes had been hacked apart and remodelled into real homes. The Weasleys had helped a lot with that; Luna would always remember the first day all of the Weasleys without exception had crossed the hills to visit the Rookery and build the little hotel of sorts for her not-so-temporary guests.

And thus the shelter was made.

Luna's work became her life. She didn't quite know how it had happened, but Ginny had called it predictable. "You're really surprised that barely a year out of school you've started gathering your own zoo?" she'd asked Luna when Luna had posed the ponderous question.

"It's not a zoo, Ginny," Luna said. "They're not in cages."

"It's practically a zoo."

"But it isn't, is it? They can leave whenever they want to."

Ginny had fallen somewhere between frowning and smiling at that. "You know," she'd said, "I don't think you should mention that around any ministry representatives that come to check out the safety of your holdings. They might withdraw your funding."

Luna wasn't much for keeping secrets. Not when it was something that she didn't perceive as being much of a secret – because she _didn't_ force the magical creatures to remain at their pseudo-hotel. She _didn't_ force them into enclosures or cages as many zoos did. Her father might call it 'locking up for the night', but it was by and large more a process of closing doors to open windows and providing the feed for those who wordlessly requested it before turning in.

But Ginny was smart. Ginny, far from pursuing a career in Quidditch as most had assumed she would, had chosen to work at the ministry, and in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement no less, so she would know. Luna trusted Ginny, so she held her tongue. Not that any such 'ministry representatives' visited all that often but to make sure that her 'funding for endangered and injured creatures' was keeping up its end of the deal, but…

Trotting down the descending path from the Rookery, Luna drew slowly towards her shelter's hotel. It was a sprawling structure, more a complex of multiple interconnected buildings than any one sole structure specifically, and stood at least three times as big as the Rookery, if not quite as tall. Stout walls and domed roofs, several built of glass because some residents in particular preferred to see the night sky. More doors than most residential buildings would likely deem necessary peppered the walls like multitudinous eyes.

But the hotel wasn't like most buildings, so it didn't matter that it looked a little funny. Luna had posed the request to the Weasleys when they'd first built it, because _some_ of the residents wanted to get out exactly where they wanted to. And at exactly the right height. And with just the right amount of access. Thus, those stout walls depicted their doors with some lower than Luna's knees, or positioned higher than her head like windows, or were narrow, or sideways, or more of an open archway than a door at all.

Luna liked the hotel. She liked it a lot, for that matter, which was probably a good thing given that she spent most of every day within its walls.

There was one door that was _her_ door, and it was through that which she entered through, clutching her boxes and parcels of little morsels to her chest as she backed through it. Even before she was turning to face the long hallways interconnected throughout the complex, she was raising her voice. "I have supper for everyone! I will be tucking into beds and distributing snacks to the people who want it, so everyone needs to be about their beds so I don't miss them!"

For a heartbeat, there was a pause. Luna stalled for that moment on the threshold, peering down the long hallway that branched off in multiple directions like the roots of a tree. Then, like a siren had been sounded, the sound of scrambling, clattering, and explosive bedtime retreat erupted.

There were squawks. There were chatters. There was the scuffle of feet as bodies hastened to their designated rooms to await Luna's arrival and deliveries. In an outburst of audible chaos, the hotel grew into a distinctly un-sleepy manner.

Luna had never deduced whether the magical creatures under her care truly knew what she said. She didn't think it really mattered, because they listened, and they responded nonetheless. Some people called creatures dumb for not understanding words. Some called them stupid because they didn't 'do what they were told'.

Luna knew they were wrong, and not only because when _she_ asked, those very creatures leapt to eager response. _She_ knew that misunderstanding was simply because they were different, and different wasn't a bad thing. It wasn't synonymous with 'stupid'. Her creature friends might not understand English, but that didn't make them dumb. Not at all.

Smiling to herself as she heard someone – it sounded like Tiger – squawk like an indignant chicken, she picked up her feet and trotted down the hallway. She had her routine, her procedure, her list of visits to make before the events of the day fully drew to a close. Luna had a duty to her friends – her smart friends, her adorable friends that _chose_ to stay rather than were forcibly kept – and she would always rise to the occasion. They deserved that much from her, especially when so many of them had borne mistreatment in their lives.

She took a stop by the Woodlands, ducking through the room of overgrown trees and a spread of grasses and shrubbery that shouldn't have been able to grow either indoors or so well as it had were it not for the loving attention of its tenders. Pausing in the middle of the veritable rainforest, Luna plucked at a single box and peeled it open. A self-contained plague of crickets immediately sprung forth.

"Dinner, boys and girls," Luna whisper-called to the invisible Bowtruckles she knew hung around her from their camouflaging twigs. She rarely saw them, so perfectly resembling the greenery as they were, but that didn't matter. She didn't care for them, feed them, or love them in the hopes of receiving something in return. Luna left the Bowtruckle Woodlands to the sound of cricket chirps abruptly silencing in the telltale sign of Bowtruckles feasting.

The next room, similarly speckled with night-swathed trees of a taller kind, Luna held aloft an unwrapped and sadly limp handful of dead lizards. "I just picked them up today," she called to the towering canopy overhead and the creatures she couldn't quite see through the darkness. "They're nice and fresh for you."

The lizards disappeared from her hands. Whether it was in the grasp of a monkey's tail or the pluck of webbed fingers, Luna didn't know. Clabberts were quiet creatures, their arboreal tendencies often keeping them so far off the ground that Luna saw them as rarely as she did the Bowtruckles. Occasionally, the glowing red false eyes in the centre of their frog-like faces would blink down at her to remind her that they still existed, but often little more than that.

Luna didn't mind. They were her guests; they didn't need to show themselves.

Along the next corridor, she stopped by the Kennels to the sight of its occupants still scampering about the room in fervour. With practiced hands, she tucked the fork-tailed Crups into their beds where they wriggled and writhed like excitable puppies, and nestled the Nogtails into their blankets beside them. The little pig-like demons were reputably known for fearing dogs, but apparently Crups were an exception. Or they were _now_ – Luna remembered when she'd first acquired the litter of Nogtails; they'd been more skittish than squealing piglets.

The Nifflers were content in their little nests of gold, and Luna spared a moment to add a Warming Charm to their cocooning caves.

The Golden Snidget, blinded from a poacher stealing its scarlet eyes, zipped around its shadowy room as she tossed beetles into the air for it to catch.

Alfie the Augurey uttered his usual warbling cry as she poked her head into his aviary, the Irish Phoenix as usual fulfilling his mournfully melodious stereotype that Luna suspected was more of a ruse than actual solemnity. Augurey's were typically melancholic, and especially in the winter months, but Alfie was content _most_ of the time.

"You're not fooling me, Alfie," she said, stroking his crested head. Alfie only crooned something that wasn't quite sad in reply.

A hallway and a corner away, Luna passing through the Dugbog's room that smelled comfortably of its usual rot, then moved onto chuffing the Doxies back into their _own_ rooms so they would stop terrorising the pair of fairies where said fairies twittered and hissed in protest. She wove through the Kneazle's room with its spread of torn-eared and three-legged residents. Pillows were plumped, bedding laid, and the Kneazles purred their appreciation before she left.

The Lobalug popped its head from its pool-room when Luna passed.

The Mooncalves bayed with and hummed their greeting as she pecked a kiss to each head.

The Diricawls popped into visibility when Luna peered into their room, the plump, fluffy, flightless birds stumbling towards her for nothing but the attention of a petting hand.

The Fwooper, lime green and sadly silent for the horrifying magic that had permanently muted him, bopped along his branch towards Luna as she held out a hand of seeds to be slurped greedily into his hungry beak.

All of them. Every single one. Each room that Luna stopped by, the residents would turn towards her with their own versions of smiles and welcome and accept their treats, or allow themselves to be tucked in. Even the Runespoors, of which Luna had little understanding of given they were her newest residents, reared their heads and fluttered their tongues in greeting before sinking back into their baskets to sleep.

Luna loved them. She loved them all. Even those that she didn't see, that didn't really speak to her as many didn't believe magical creatures even _could_ speak – she loved them for being her friends. And she loved them for choosing to stay when she never forced them too. Only years ago, Luna would never have anticipated that she would have so many lovely friends. That most of them weren't even human… in some ways, that was even better. More exciting. More fulfilling, because those non-humans needed her help and she, their friend, could offer it.

It was with warmth tingling comfortably down her arms, now free of packages and snacks, that she stepped into the final room of the hotel. It was large, widespread, and an open doorway stood in the middle of the far wall. Luna paused just inside the room, squinting through the darkness of the room and across the open plane reminiscent of a desert.

"Maggie?" she called quietly so as not to disturb the rest of the hotel's residents that were already sinking into sleep.

There was a snuffling sound. A bluster of breath. A foot stamped, toenails scraping on the dirt floor. And then, in a rumble of movement, Maggie charged.

Graphorns were large. Huge, even. Hump-backed and hulking with purplish skin that the darkness faded to grey, they were nothing short of intimidating. The horns only added to the effect, to say nothing of the draping beard of tentacles hanging from the front of their faces. That they were reputedly dangerous? Of course being charged by one was terrifying.

Or it would be, if that Graphorn were anyone but Maggie

Maggie stood head, withers and shoulders above Luna, but when she ground to a huffing halt before Luna, it was to croon affectionately before butting her flat forehead into Luna's. Luna smiled, stroking the Graphorn's nose, and couldn't help but giggle a little the tentacles hanging like a beard and moustache from Maggie's chin sniffled in her hair.

"That tickles, Maggie," she murmured.

Maggie huffed again, humming as she pressed her nose once more into the side of Luna's head.

"Time for bed?" Luna suggested.

Another hum.

"I was thinking we could go for a walk tomorrow, you and me. Maybe out to the lake? Maybe take some of the Crups with us if they wanted to come?"

Maggie's hum grew thoughtful. Then she snuffled again, her tentacles patting Luna's face in fond little caresses.

Luna smiled. Just as she'd promised her father – but she would have done even without the promise – she planted a kiss upon Maggie's flat nose. The hulking Graphorn that would terrify so many people simply at the sight of her rumbled in adoration, and her tentacles planted a kind of kiss right back.

"You'll be alright out here by yourself until morning?" Luna asked, because she always did. She had to, because even if Maggie didn't understand her, she seemed to understand the sentiment. She understood that, in asking, Luna was telling her that she loved her and that she wouldn't be alone for long. Maggie had always been anxious about solitude; her barging into the Rookery on her first night's stay at the hotel stood testament to that.

Maggie muttered something in reply that sounded almost like words. She butted her head against Luna's once more, tentacles fluttering. Luna smiled. "Alright, then. Have a good night, love. Sleep tight, and don't let the doxies bite."

Then she turned, and she left her shelter, her hotel, her pride and joy as it fell into comfortable sleep. It's sprawling mass was a dark smear in the thinner darkness of night, and Luna wouldn't have been able to see it at all had the moon overhead not been half-visible behind a spread of wispy clouds. She could almost hear the heavy breathing of magical creatures put to slumbering rest.

The Rookery was equally silent when Luna returned to the house. Shivering slightly, the chill of crisp spring seeping into her bones as it hadn't when she'd been working, she clattered through the front door and dutifully locked it behind her. Luna personally didn't mind if the door was left open to anyone who wanted – or needed – to visit for the evening, but her father had always been wary since the war. It was a little sad, really, but…

The kitchen was dark. The candle that had illuminated its circular space had guttered out. It was that reason, Luna suspected as she dug into a pocket for her wand, that she tripped over the shoes placed unexpectedly just inside the doorway.

Cheeping in surprised, Luna caught herself before gesturing a _Lumos_ charm towards the floor. A pair of boots sprung into sight, discarded and flopping limply as though exhausted from a long day of work. They were familiar, those boots. Familiar – and the moment Luna saw them, she smiled.

She'd put her hotel and its residents to sleep, but there was one more visitor to bundle into bed.

Padding quietly up the stairs to her bedroom, Luna crept through the Rookery that had rapidly fallen to its own sleep with her father's retreat to his bed. She didn't pause at his room, however, slipping through the darkness split only by her _Lumos_ towards her own room. The creaking of the steps were her only company, but Luna wasn't lonely. When she stopped in the doorway to her room, she couldn't help but smile.

Luna had a lot of friends now. More than she'd ever had, even, and she loved that. But her oldest friends? Those who'd befriended her despite her oddness and when so many others shunned her? They would always hold a special place in her heart.

Like Harry. And Hermione. And Ron, and Neville, and the entirety of the Weasleys. Like most of Dumbledore's Army, many of whom Luna hadn't seen for years but still cherished because they were her _friends_.

Like Ginny, who oftentimes appeared in Luna's bed, all but passed out in exhaustion after a long day of work.

Luna didn't question why Ginny visited some nights. She didn't ask why, instead of returning to her own home and her own room barely an Apparition away if he couldn't be bothered to walk the short distance, she instead retreated to the Rookery. Luna didn't ask, just as she didn't question that Ginny was sometimes close-lipped about her work as a Ministry Auror, or that she sometimes felt the need to talk about the war years after it had ended.

Luna didn't ask because she had no expectations. She didn't need to be told, or explained to. She didn't need anything from her friend, just as she didn't need anything from the residents of her shelter.

Instead, Luna accepted the company as it was offered. Whether Ginny had simply wanted the comfort of the Rookery that, for whatever reason, the Burrow couldn't provide, or she had a strange liking for the overly soft mattress Luna had on her bed, Luna didn't know. But she accepted it, and instead of questioning Ginny's presence, Luna slipped into her cluttered little bedroom and clambered on the bed.

Ginny stirred as the mattress shifted. She was still dressed in her Auror robes but for her boots, which Luna supposed was largely indicative of just how tired she was. Her red hair was a tangled mess spreading across Luna's pillow, and she had an ink stain streaking across one cheek. A day of paperwork, most likely; for whatever reason, Luna knew that her friend oftentimes found it more exhausting to hunch a day over a desk than chasing after Dark wizards and witches.

Ginny blinked an eye open and peered up at Luna as Luna settled herself. "Hi," Ginny mumbled, that single word barely intelligible.

"Hi," Luna whispered in reply.

"You… have a paintbrush… behind your ear."

Luna reached absently to the brush she'd all but forgotten was there. "So I do," she murmured, smiling.

Ginny's eye had slid closed before she'd even replied. "Sorry…" she said with a sleepy sigh. "Gonna use your bed."

"Are you alright?"

Ginny sighed again, and there was something world-weary about in the sound. "I'm just…"

Luna smiled without truly understanding. Her shelter was a wonder in and of itself. It was chaotic at times, and simply noisy at others. Confusing, too, as she rarely knew exactly what it was that her guests truly wanted. Sometimes there were fights, and she was frequently drawn into a squabble about peaches and oranges and which Doxy had claimed which fruit first.

But Luna loved it. She expected nothing less, and she loved every moment of it. Even – and perhaps most distinctly – the kind of pets that curled up into her bed at night without explanation because they needed her.

"Tired?" Luna offered.

"No, I'm… I'm just resting my eyes for…"

"You can go to sleep."

"No, I… I'm not, I'm…"

She was. Of course she was. Luna smiled down at Ginny's slackening face as she snuggled into the pillow. With a hand, Luna reached out and tucked Ginny's fringe behind her ear, patting her head gently as she did so.

A friend wasn't _supposed_ to have favourites, but sometimes… just sometimes, Luna would acknowledge that the quirks of some of her friends warmed her a little more deeply than others. Climbing herself into the blankets at Ginny's side, Luna nuzzled into the corner of the pillow Ginny hadn't monopolised and closed her eyes to the aftermath of the chaos of the familiarly chaotic day.

It was the same. Always the same routine, day after day. And Luna loved every second of it.


	16. Draco

~|Forty Months After the War|~

* * *

Some places in the world seemed impossible in there existence. They were too isolated. Too sedate, too quiet, too placid. The people were too friendly, and far too embroiled in their menial daily lives that rarely dared to tiptoe from the boundaries of their impossible little existences.

Merrington was one of those places.

Why Draco had retreated to the autumnally draped town in the far south of England, he couldn't tell anyone. A need for change, he would call it, and as much a change as the season itself. It would remain a mystery to curious eyes and ears – or the once-curious but no longer. Years of swimming along the outskirts of society had allowed Draco to slink from the protective shade of unobtrusiveness to begin life anew.

He'd fled to Paris. Away from England had seemed like such a good idea at the time, and for that time it was. But now…

_Who would have thought I would get homesick for a country and people who despised me?_

Draco had thought those very words countless times over the past weeks. There was more resignation than incredulity attached to them now. The people of England still shunned the Malfoy name and all those who bore it. Draco's absence wouldn't have changed that fact. He knew that the moment he raised his head in Wizarding society once more, he would be struck down like a whack-a-mole at one of those Muggle arcades his Parisian friend Joan had dragged him to.

It had been a fun game. Draco almost couldn't blame the world for striking him down. But such vehement dislike made skirting society once again that much more integral. Thus, Merrington.

Draco strode down the central street of the sedate, quiet, placid town, the crispness of autumn bathing the air in a mild chill and the colours of gold, red, and brown. At such an early hour, barely a murmur disrupted the quietude. Wan morning light skittered across the peaked roofs of stores lining the wide, cobbled main street, and Draco squinted through that wanness in an effort to make out each of the stores' names printed above their shuttered doors.

The Chuckling Cupid: what looked like an inn or a pub of sorts with a laughing, fat, baby angel depicted on a swinging sign out the front.

Blooms Books: a dark, musty looking store that somehow managed to appear welcoming despite that must.

Something that looked like a salon and reeked of chemicals.

A corner store, illuminated by fluorescent lights.

A grocer that, even for the sleepiness of the town, was apparently open as though expecting a sudden influx of morning shoppers.

Draco shook his head. The town was almost eerily welcoming; he'd never experienced anything like it before, and he didn't know if it was a good thing or not. Not that it really mattered, because he… because Draco…

He paused outside one such store. It was dark. It was silent. It was clearly asleep, too, which defied Draco expectations for the man he'd spoken to the previous day. "Of course, drop by at any time in the morning and I'll be there!" he'd been told with unnecessary cheer.

Draco was here. And the man was… not.

Nonetheless, he rapped on the glass door of the little store. It would once have been a demand, but Draco had learned that 'demanding' often didn't get him anywhere when those being demanded of didn't know or respect him as they should. So he knocked, but it wasn't incessantly. And then he waited.

His correspondent was a long time in coming. Two more knocks and the wan autumnal sun rose to tickle Draco's neck before the lock jiggled and the shadow of a man filled the glass window. The door swung open on well-oiled hinges and a middle age man, squinting as though he'd just woken, poked his head out.

He blinked. He stared. He rubbed an eye, and Draco waited for him to gather his senses to speak. "You're, ah…"

"I called you yesterday," Draco clarified. He took a deep, fortifying breath that he hoped the man didn't perceive before continuing. "We talked about my renting your establishment."

The man stared at him some more. There was no hint of recognition in his face, and Draco felt soothed by that fact. People didn't know him here. And they wouldn't, because…

"You're Dray Malloy?" the man asked, a smile splitting his face. He stuck out a hand. "Sure! Welcome! Nice to meet you, mate."

Dray Malloy. Not Draco Malfoy. Not here, in the Muggle town that was renowned in Wizarding Britain as being wholly and disconcertingly absent of witches and wizards at all. That absence was exactly the reason Draco had chosen it.

He grasped the man's hand, and not a tingle of discomfort that this was a Muggle touched him. Not anymore. He'd long overcome that distaste out of necessity. "A pleasure, I can assure you," he said, and even in the eerie merriness and unfamiliariy of the town of Merrington, Draco felt himself ease as he was invited inside the store.

This was a new start. Just like autumn itself, Draco's life was changing. He would make the most of all he possibly could.


	17. Narcissa

~|Forty-Three Months After the War|~

* * *

Old houses creaked. They groaned beneath the weight of their years, the walls aching for the very effort of remaining upright. Malfoy Manor was no different.

Narcissa knew what people said about it. What they said about her, too. That the manor – dark, looming, and isolated behind its iron-wrought fencing – was a haunted house in all but name. That its cavernous depths bemoaned their abandonment and the absence of a proper family to live within it. That it was always hushed, and mournful, and that ghosts floated down the hallways like insubstantial wraiths, wailing of the fall of the Malfoy family.

How wrong they were. Narcissa _knew_ they were wrong; it was one of many reasons she rarely stepped outdoors anymore.

Drifting down one of her dark, hushed hallways, Narcissa paused upon the threshold of her son's room. She lingered long enough to peer within, leaning just slightly around the frame to see the ornate, elegant spread of perfectly clean furnishings and the fire crackling in its hearth. And her son. Always her son, half-reclined upon the chaise, or sprawled upon the bed, or peering out of the window.

He never looked Narcissa's way, because she never let him notice her. Ensuring that Draco was in his place was the only reason she paused to glimpse inside at all before retreating like an owl on silent wings.

Withdrawing from Draco's rooms, the house creaking as her only company to override even the barest shuffle of her feet, Narcissa turned and descended the hallway. Her hand grazed along the panelling on the wall, across a runner table, and plucked absently at a blossom of bright flowers in a vase. The house elves had put it there, she knew. They looked vibrantly out of place of the place in the stark black and white façade of the rest of the house, and, extracting her wand, Narcissa wilted them until they were faded into comfortable drabness.

There. Much better.

And she drifted once more. She glided along hallways and up stairwells. She paused only to peer out a window or into a room – always pristine, always still and silent, black and white and untouched – before shuffling further onwards. A longer pause was spared for her husband's office, where she dutifully stopped on the threshold to peer inside. Lucius, head bowed over a stack of papers and working behind his wide, polished desk before his impressive spread of antique bookshelves, didn't even notice her.

But that was alright. He wasn't supposed to. Narcissa smiled, turned, and continued to drift. The right place. Everything was in its right place, as Narcissa made it, and it always remained so.

Except when she came.

"You need to get out of this house, Cissy," she'd said. Narcissa ignored her.

"It's not good for you, to be cooped up all the time." Narcissa ignored that, too.

"Didn't you say you wanted to help me with Teddy? Come out for a time, Narcissa. Please."

Narcissa had said that. Years ago, she'd told her sister that she wanted to help her, to support her sister's grandson, and that she wanted to rekindle the relationship they'd lost. And she _did_ want that. It was only that…

"Bring him here, then," Narcissa offered as a compromise each and every time Andromeda suggested such a thing. "I'm sure Draco would revel in showing him around, and Lucius would benefit from seeing him in his reprieves from working." She always smiled, because the thought was nothing short of perfectly picturesque.

Andromeda didn't smile. She didn't smiled all that much anymore, not as she had when they'd first overcome the residual loathing of the war. Narcissa had hoped that, when the trials and the fury against Death Eaters had died to a mellow grumble of unforgotten memory, she and Andromeda might be able to mend their torn relationship. And they had, for a time. Except that Andromeda was _wrong_. She didn't understand because –

"You shouldn't be in this house so much, Narcissa. It's haunted by too many memories."

Andromeda was wrong, because –

"It's never good for you to be so alone."

Narcissa wasn't alone, she was never alone, because -

"You just have to accept that they're not there, they're not coming back, and _move on_."

Andromeda didn't understand. She never would. Andromeda had lost her family, but Narcissa knew she hadn't. She saw them. She saw Draco in his room, and her husband in his study, and she knew her sister was wrong. Draco hadn't fled to another country. Lucius wasn't in Azkaban. They _weren't_.

Many people, Narcissa knew, believed her home to be haunted. To be weighted by age and the absence of a family within its walls. They believed the house was all but empty, abandoned, and cavernous in that empty abandon. But they didn't know. Simply because they couldn't see the residents of Malfoy Manor when they stood right before them didn't mean they weren't there.

Narcissa knew better, even if the rest of the world didn't.


	18. Ginny

~|Forty-Seven Months After the War|~

* * *

Diagon Alley was often abuzz with shoppers, families on outings, and harried workers dashing between their businesses or in the vague direction of Gringotts. Ginny had always marvelled that, even sometimes when she finished at work, it would be bubbling with excitement and enthusiasm and craziness. Or at least it was upon the times she finished before the sun had fully retired for the evening.

That day was one such day. In the height of spring, the wan sunset still radiating an orange glow upon the pointed hats and bared heads of witches and wizards as they closed up for the evening or made one last ditch effort for that _one_ store that had that _one_ _thing_ they sought, mania still abounded.

Striding down the centre street of Diagon Alley, Ginny wove with expert ease amongst those stumbling, racing people. The broomstick slung over her shoulder acted as something of a deterrent except for the more absentminded of those she passed; those people usually got clipped on the head and stunned from their focus, but Ginny didn't mind. She was an Auror, not a bloody saint. They should be watching where they were going, too.

Heads still turned towards her. Eyes still caught and held, following her passage, because Ginny was someone _important_. Her name carried weight. She was a war hero, even four years after the war had ended. She had been a high-profile quidditch player set to play at a national level before she'd turned aside the Holyhead Harpies' offer not once but twice. She'd blown expectation out of the water by instead following the vague route of her older brother and joining the Aurors.

She was the ex-girlfriend and still-friend of the Saviour, Harry Potter.

She was the youngest child of the famous Weasley family.

Her face was known, had appeared in more papers than Ginny had bothered – or wanted – to count. Her fame, though unnecessary, unwanted, and, in her opinion, unwarranted, persisted. Ginny knew all of this, just as she had for years. The fact that she was one of the few core war veterans who didn't shy from the public seemed to make her only more appealing.

Ginny didn't care. She didn't care that heads turned and whispers sprang from lips when she passed. It was ridiculous, but unavoidable. She didn't deserve such fame, because her fame was attributed to actions undertaken out of necessity rather than bravery and altruism. If she were to be recognised at all, Ginny would far prefer to be acknowledged for her membership in the Mounted Auror Squad. That, at least, had been her decision.

It had been an unremarkable day. A morning of training – because the Mounted Aurors lived for their dexterity on a broom and fought to maintain their skill – had been followed by a follow-up of the mission Ginny had undertaken three days prior. Reports, mountains of paperwork, two back-to-back meetings, and barely time for a lunch break in between. Ginny hadn't anticipated _that_ to be such a large part of her role as an Auror, but…

She didn't begrudge it exactly, for someone had to do the paperwork and talk the higher-ups into relative sanity. She just resented a little that many in her squad lumped that work upon her.

Striding away from the office before nightfall that day felt particularly satisfying. Breathing in the sharp spring air, the smell of baked chestnuts rippling over the distinct tang that could only be described as 'human', Ginny let that satisfaction wash through her. Maybe she could go for another flight that afternoon? She was of a mind to head over to Luna's that evening, which was more of a 'return to Luna's' than 'visit' given she practically lived at the house, but she would have time. The evening was looking bright, and –

"That's Ginny Weasley, isn't it? Look at her, in all of her arrogance, the cow."

"I know, right? Walking around like she owns the Alley just because she's wearing an Auror's robe."

"Where does such presumptuousness come from? It's only because of her fame that she got so far…"

Ginny slowed slightly in step but didn't pause. She glanced sidelong in the direction the voice had arisen but caught sight only of a cluster of witches as they scurried past. She swallowed a scowl. Why did people feel the need to resent her? Why mutter and hiss and spit like disgruntled cats because she didn't fit their ideal? Ginny didn't know, and she'd long ago shed the desire to fulfil the impossible ideals and expectations of the public. Why try when it was so fluid and changed with every daily?

Still, Ginny couldn't quite shake her irritation as she lengthened her stride in the direction of the Leaky Cauldron. Such a pity, that her good mood could shrivel so readily. Ginny _should_ know better. She shouldn't cave so easily before such petty remarks – but for reasons she couldn't understand, it still stung.

The tail of her broom clipped someone's head as Ginny dodged around a pedestrian headed straight for her, and she heard an oath cursed in her wake. But she didn't turn. She didn't apologise, because Ginny _wasn't_ a saint. She was an Auror, which meant she did a bloody good job at hunting Dark witches and wizards and protected people. It _didn't_ mean she danced to their whims like a puppet on strings.

It pissed her off. Damn, but it pissed her off terribly. Why should she have to change herself depending upon the needs of all around her? Why should she have to care? Why were her circumstances anyone else's opinion? Ginny didn't want to care about most of the public, and by and large she didn't. She did her job, and that job didn't entail such trivial tasks as chasing Floo misusers or rescuing kittens from trees.

Why a grubby little girl who looked barely five years old seemed to think otherwise, Ginny would never know.

That girl appeared before Ginny so abruptly that Ginny nearly tripped over her. Her sights had been set upon the approaching Leaky Cauldron, her mind upon escaping into the air in flight, and she hadn't noticed the little girl spring into her path.

Not that the girl seemed to care that she was nearly bowled over. She all but threw herself upon Ginny before Ginny even dropped her gaze to her.

"Auror!" the girl cried with unnecessary volume and shrillness. Her hands reached out to grab at the lapels of Ginny's robe, tugging insistently. "Auror, missus, you have to help me!"

"Missus?" Ginny asked, all but skidding to a halt in her tracks. She blinked down at the little girl, readjusting her hold upon her broomstick and ignoring the grumble of a passer-by for her sudden disruption of the flow of traffic. "How old do you take me for?"

"Please help me, missus!" the girl repeated as though she hadn't heard Ginny's words at all.

Ginny frowned. The kid was round faced, wide-eyed, and looked like she'd all but rolled in a pigsty. Was she neglected? Was she being chased by someone? Why did she need help? Ginny's primary responsibilities lay in hunting Dark magic users, and she didn't have much care for the gossipmongers of the world, but seeing a child in need… Even if that child was deluded enough to call her 'missus', she didn't like to see it.

Bending forwards slightly, Ginny leaned towards the little girl and unslung her broom from her shoulder. "What's your name?"

"You have to help –"

"I know," Ginny cut the girl off. She was certainly one-track minded, Ginny would give her that. "And I will. But tell me your name first."

The girl gnawed at her bottom lip for a moment before replying. "I'm Teaghan, and my brother's name is Billie, and he's older than me but only two years older, and you have to help because Billie isn't here and Twitch – Twitch needs your help. You have to help her!"

Ginny blinked again. She'd never had much to do with kids but for her nieces and nephews, but those nieces and nephews were younger. They didn't talk quite so… much. Or so fast.

Teaghan's mouth still hung open and she seemed on the verge of continuing, so Ginny cut her off once more. "Twitch? Who's Twitch?"

"Twitch is my best friend!" Teaghan said, tugging Ginny's robes again for emphasis. "She's my _best friend_ but she got stuck up on the post because she _always_ gets stuck because she likes climbing, and you're an Auror, and Aurors are supposed to help, so you have to help!"

The kid talked way too fast. Way, way too fast, and she said very little of real worth when she actually spoke. Ginny didn't know who Twitch was or why she needed help – she was stuck up on a post? – but Teaghan's words…

Ginny didn't help with the trivial difficulties of the public world. She wasn't involved in petty crimes or menial law enforcement tasks. But Teaghan was right; Aurors were supposed to help people, and even if Ginny didn't know the little girl, and even if she didn't understand what exactly she was asking for…

Ginny wasn't cold enough that she wouldn't help. She'd grown harder over the years, but not heartless.

Straightening, Ginny dropped a hand onto the little girl's shoulder. "Alright, calm down before you hurt yourself," she said. "Twitch is your friend, right?"

Teaghan nodded. "Yes, she's my best friend in the whole wide world, even though she can sometimes be really, really –"

"And she's stuck?" Ginny interrupted before Teaghan could get carried away again.

Teaghan nodded vigorously once more. "Yes, she always, always gets stuck because she's so silly, but this time I can't help her get down because she climbed up really high, and Mum's going to get so mad at me because she said that we shouldn't come to Diagon Alley together even though Twitch _loves_ Diagon Alley, and –"

"Can you show me where she is?" Ginny interrupted, because Teaghan's gushing and irrelevant explanations weren't getting them anywhere.

Teaghan stuttered to a halt. Then she nodded for the third time, tightened her hold on Ginny's robes, and trotted backwards. Ginny couldn't help but be dragged after her. "Yes! I can show you! Just follow me, because I know the way, because I know Diagon Alley better than anyone, and…"

Ginny didn't listen as Teaghan continued to chatter with less concern and more animation. She allowed herself to be dragged through the throngs of the afternoon crowd, buffeting more people than even Ginny's own usual carelessness managed for the directness of their route. Ginny even apologised to a few of the more disgruntled people she collided into.

Teaghan wound an energetically bouncing, winding path, down a side alley and into the adjacent street further along the loop of Diagon Alley itself. She took another turn, trotted past a café with workers just beginning to pack away their tables, and Ginny could only chide herself as she followed for getting involved with little girls who talked too much, and other little girls who, apparently, stupidly, climbed posts. Who did that, anyway? Honestly.

Ginny ground to a halt when Teaghan finally jerked to a stop. Her gaze drew up to 'the post' planted directly before her. Witches and wizards wandered around them, weaving in their evening dances as she stared, and exasperation welled within her. Twitch was… she was…

"Teaghan," she said shortly. "Cat's can climb perfectly well themselves. I'm sure she can get herself down from the lamppost."

Teaghan, staring up at Twitch where said cat squatted atop a lamppost that hadn't yet flickered to light, turned her wide-eyed gaze towards Ginny. "Twitch isn't a cat, she's a Kneazle," she said, as though that explained everything.

"Same thing," Ginny said, though she mentally chided herself because they _weren't_ , and Luna, being the expert in all things magical creature-related, had taken the liberty of telling her just that numerous times. "But either way, I'm sure Twitch is smart enough to get herself down."

"She's not," Teaghan said, her voice rising shrilly once more. "She always gets stuck. When we play, she always climbs up into places and won't come down, even when I ask her too."

Ginny stared down at the little girl who had far too much voice and energy to be a real human being. Then she drew her gaze up towards the Kneazle who, upon closer inspection of her overlarge ears and the plume at the end of her tail, did indeed resemble a Kneazle more than a cat.

Kneazle's were supposed to be smarter than cats, or so Luna claimed. Ginny hazarded a guess that this Kneazle was probably amongst those smart ones. Twitch didn't appear particularly worried about being 'stuck'. If anything, she regarded Teaghan with complacent eyes, tail curling and twitching beneath her, and looked all but set to spend the night on her perch.

 _Smart cat,_ Ginny thought. _I wonder just how many times she's escaped Teaghan's over-enthusiastic clutches by getting 'stuck'?_

Shaking her head, Ginny returned her gaze to Teaghan's. The little girl still stared up at her, her eyes still wide and her hand still clutching Ginny's robes. She looked nothing if not pitiful. "Listen," Ginny said with a sigh. "Kneazle's are really smart. I'm sure she'll get herself down when she wants to."

Teaghan's eyes widened a little further. "But she won't come even when I call her."

 _There's probably a reason for that_ , Ginny thought, but kept it to herself. She shrugged and squeezed Teaghan's shoulder. "Maybe she's just contemplating the jump? It's quite high, after all."

Teaghan's bottom lip began to tremble and Ginny cursed internally. She hated when kids did that lip trembling thing. Teddy Lupin had taken to doing it of late, too; Ginny always found she melted before it.

"But Mum will get really angry at me," Teaghan said pitifully. "And she said I'm supposed to go and find her before the bell chimes again."

"The bell?" Ginny asked.

Teaghan filched a little device from her pocket – something that looked distinctly Muggle and Ginny absently dubbed as some kind of alarm – and flashed it at her. "When it makes the bell sound, I have to go and find Mum again, and I can't, because Twitch is stuck, and she won't come down, and I can't climb that high but I might have to, and I don't want to because I might fall and –"

"Alright, alright, calm down," Ginny said. She briefly closed her eyes. Kids were always so dramatic. "Don't freak out, Teaghan. It's not that bad."

"But…" Teaghan began again, her voice warbling.

That did it for Ginny. She wasn't a 'kid' person, but she'd had an unshakeable soft spot for them. Turning away from Teaghan, she lowered her broomstick from her shoulder and raised her gaze towards the lamppost. Why no one _else_ was capable of getting the Kneazle down, and why Teaghan came to Ginny specifically, she didn't know. But she would help, because crying kids? Ginny hated that.

"Sit tight for a second, Teaghan," Ginny said, slinging a leg over her broomstick. "I'll get her down."

Teaghan's expression morphed so quickly that, had she been an adult, Ginny would have assumed she'd been manipulating her with the whole 'on the verge of crying' act. But kids did that, she'd learned. How they shifted from a blubbering mess one moment to laughing with genuine amusement the next was something she'd never understand.

"Really?" Teaghan burst out. "Thank you, Auror, missus! Thank you so, so much!"

"Don't call me 'missus'," Ginny muttered, but mostly to herself. Then she kicked off the ground.

Spells and enchantments didn't often work on magical creatures, or so Ginny had learned in both her school studies and from Luna's offhanded education. Ginny could have attempted a Summoning Charm, but the magic thrumming through the Kneazle's veins – traditionally wily and intelligent beasts as they were – would have likely deflected it. So Ginny spiralled up the lamppost on her broom, circled around the head, and paused to hang suspended beside it.

Long ears flickered. Yellow eyes narrowed as they turned towards Ginny. Her tail twitched as though to further emphasise the validity of her name. Twitch regarded Ginny with open intelligence, and Ginny was abruptly sure that the Kneazle knew _exactly_ what she was doing when she got herself stuck.

"Don't make the kid upset, you little shit," Ginny said, reaching for the Kneazle. "She clearly dotes on you. Throw her a bone."

The Kneazle grumbled. She put up a fight when Ginny attempted to tug her loose, but only in an act of stubbornness. Her claws clung to the head of the lamppost, her grumbles grew to an indignant mew, and her ears flattened against her skull.

Ginny didn't care. She'd helped Luna with enough Kneazles to no longer crumple before such stubbornness. With a firm tug, she yanked Twitch from her perch, ignored the ensuing, grumbling protests, and descended to the ground.

Teaghan was all but shrieking with delight. Her arms stretched towards Ginny even before Ginny's feet touched the ground, and she accepted Twitch in an embrace like that of a long-lost loved one. Twitch's tail lashed, her feline expression nothing short of unimpressed, but she allowed it. Or she didn't protest with more of than grumble, at least.

"Thank you, missus!" Teaghan exclaimed overloudly. Her cry turned more than a few curious heads, but only briefly. Only negligibly. "You saved her."

"It wasn't so hard," Ginny said.

"You're a hero!"

"Well, I wouldn't go so far as to say –"

"When I grow up, I'm gonna be an Auror too, and rescue all of the Kneazles that are stuck up on posts, and roofs, and on top of cars, and windowsills, and…"

She nattered inanely, and Ginny barely heard her. Personally, she thought that if such a pursuit was what Teaghan had in mind, she would be better suited to working in animal rescue like Luna. But she wouldn't comment. Teaghan was only – what, five? Ginny would let her dream a little longer.

Teaghan had shifted her words to Twitch directly as she turned away from Ginny. Not quite scolding but gently chiding, she explained of the dangers of climbing heights and "leaving me, which is really dangerous, Twitch!" It was oddly reminiscent of how a mother spoke to a child.

Ginny wasn't a saint, but she wasn't wholly heartless, either. As the little girl squeezed the disgruntled Kneazle to her chest, trotting away with a beaming smile, Ginny couldn't help but smile just a little herself.

Rescuing cats from trees and Kneazles from lampposts wasn't exactly what she'd had in mind when she'd jointed the Mounted Aurors, but it wasn't a bad pastime. Atypical, and uncalled for – but not bad. With a slight shake of her head, Ginny slung her broomstick over her shoulder and started in the direction of the Leaky Cauldron once more.


	19. Harry

~|Fifty Months After the War|~

* * *

When Harry had left London to travel in an escape that had been a 'temporary respite' and felt a whole lot like running away, he'd had no idea that it would be longer than two years before he returned.

But such was the reality. And when Harry did return, he saw London with its winding streets and honking madness in all of its glory.

There were the bottlenecks, clogged with cars. There were the footpaths, jam-packed with pedestrians, and gutters, thick with muck from what appeared to be a previous night of miserable drizzle. There was no evidence of that drizzle any longer, however; the late summer sun had dried up even the stubborn patches of wetness tucked down shadowed alleyways.

It was strange to be returning home, because no matter how far Harry travelled or how much he loved the countries and cities he visited, London would always be 'home'. But it felt strange, and Harry wasn't sure if he liked that strangeness.

Twenty-seven months. Thirteen countries. Countless hotel rooms, and friendly couches, and bars, and pubs, and conversations with people he knew little of but their names, and sometimes not even that. Countless letters to his friends, to ensure they were alright, to touch base and learn just a little of what passed for their 'normal' these days. Harry had ached just a little with each letter he'd received, because it was evidence of the life, the friends, and _family_ he'd left behind.

Ron had been promoted to deputy head of his Auror squad.

Hermione's second dissertation had been accepted by the local university, though she'd denied the request to step into the limelight for a presentation and report.

Ginny had taken to the Mounted Aurors so naturally that she seemed to spit in the faces of those who had once speculated she was set upon a future as a Quidditch player.

Luna's animal shelter, Neville's florist, Seamus' descent down the path of firework inventions, and Dean's latest exhibition at the local art gallery. Molly sent him packets of homemade treats as though he were still a starving child, but it was her letters, rich with talk of George's shop, Charlie's dragons, and Bill and Fleur's children, that he savoured all the more.

Harry had missed London, but he'd missed the people more. A shame, then, that wandering the cluttered streets flooded with overpowering noises, and smells, and brightness that wasn't wholly because of the sunlight, recalled to him all the reasons he'd left in the first place.

The reporters. The newspaper spreads. Being chased by every witch or wizard that happened to catch a glimpse of him because they _needed_ his autograph, and they _wanted_ his picture, and they simply _had_ to have him accompany them 'here', of visit their home 'there', or join them at their workplaces.

Harry had left London for a reason – and even without those people and reporters, and even with not a Wizarding newspaper in sight, he was all too starkly reminded of just why he'd chosen to do so.

When he left the airport, Harry avoided the Wizarding hubs; Diagon Alley was a definite no, and Wizarding neighbourhoods too. Instead, clinging to Muggle streets, Harry took a taxi from the terminal and returned to the quiet, drab little region of tall houses and gloomy windows that were sadly familiar and grimly nostalgic. He climbed from the taxi with a murmured word and stepped into the mucky gutter with his old, worn backpack slung over his shoulder. It was all he'd kept with him for most of his travels. It was all he'd needed.

For a long moment, Harry could only stand and stare. The distant sound of traffic was a discordant natter on the edges of his hearing, but Harry ignored it. A sporadic and unexpected outburst of childish laughter echoed from a street over, but he hardly heard it. Harry's attention was fixed solely upon the looming building that magically appeared before him, oh-so-familiar in the height of its drabness.

Number twelve Grimmauld Place hadn't changed all that much in his absence.

 _I wonder… if it's still the same for_ her _as it was when I left_ , he thought idly, then chided himself. _If she's even still here._

Hitching his backpack a little higher onto his shoulder, Harry trudged up the steps towards the front door that peered at him like a disconsolate old man, the peephole a squinting eye studying his approach. He nodded in absent greeting before testing the handle and letting himself inside.

The long, dark hallway. The air sparsely laden with dust. The dark walls of peeling wallpaper, the thin runner rug, the curtain-draped portrait of Walburga Black, blessedly silent. It was all the same, all so familiar, and as stagnantly unchanging as Harry had left it. The thought was as comforting as it was saddening, because…

 _If she's still here, it would have been nice had it become a little more homely._ Not that Harry was accusing or reprimanding. He doubted that the house of his godfather could ever be made homely, even if a horde of dedicated house elves attacked it with more feather dusters and Cleaning Charms than the old walls had ever seen.

Harry stood on the threshold for a long moment, simply inhaling the familiar scent. It was a little mouldy, a little damp, and a lot dusty, the entire aroma far from welcoming but ruefully comforting. Stepping quietly along the hallway, Harry peered into the first room he came upon, but… empty. He wasn't sure why he'd expected anything other.

At the base of the stairwell, he paused again. Hand clenching around the strap of his backpack, he drew his gaze to the landing overhead. Empty. Dusty. Dark and gloomy. Harry almost hoped she _wasn't_ here, but…

"Hermione?" he called quietly.

The house swallowed his words so they didn't even echo. Harry waited a beat, then, "Hermione, are you here?"

A stretch of more stagnant silence followed. Dust drifted. Harry's breath sounded overloud in his ears. He almost began to climb the stairs when a soft thud sounded from further down the hallway in the direction of the library. Turning, Harry peered towards it and saw her.

She was different. Thinner, for one. She'd chopped off a whole chunk of her hair, too, and what remained was scraped back into a knot at her nape. Her face was pale, and her hands just as much from what was visible of them from the cuffs of her overlong sleeves. She seemed all but swallowed in what Harry recognised as being a Weasley jumper.

It was her expression that got him, however. Hermione had often been a serious girl, and then a serious woman, but not quite solemn. Not quite guarded, either, or wary. For a moment, it stung that she would appear so before him – but then that wariness eased and she stepped towards him.

"Harry," she said quietly.

How they ended up suddenly in an embrace, Harry wasn't quite sure. All he knew was that one moment he was at the base of the stairwell and the next Hermione was in his arms, squeezing him until he could hardly breathe.

Not that he cared. Harry didn't really see the necessity of breathing when his best friend that he hadn't seen for years was suddenly before him. A snuffle sounded, and Harry wasn't entirely sure which of them it had arisen from.

The house seemed less gloomy at that moment. Or, more correctly, it was still gloomy but Harry didn't feel it quite so much. He'd needed to escape London and London's Wizarding world, and he'd all but abandoned his friends in doing so. He hadn't quite realised how guilty he'd felt for doing so until that moment.

"Hey," he said into Hermione's shoulder, his voice muffled.

"Hey," she replied, just as muffled.

"Missed you."

"I missed you too."

"How've you been?"

Hermione huffed warm breath onto his cheek, and Harry hadn't even realised how much he'd missed the touch of condescension that accompanied such a sound until he heard it again. Had he ever found it annoying? He wished he hadn't.

"I wrote you," she said.

"Writing doesn't really do it justice," he replied. "Tell me?"

Hermione hummed neutrally then squeezed him tighter still. "Wrote my second dissertation."

"I know. You told me."

"Been brewing a whole heap of potions."

"Who'd have thought you'd be such a potioneer in school?"

"Certainly not Snape," Hermione said, and she shook slightly with what wasn't quite laughter. Harry could understand that. Remembering certain aspects of the past – it wasn't nice. For a number of reasons, too. Snape was a sore memory, and especially so for Hermione after she'd made the earth-shattering decision to pursue a career in potion-making.

It didn't seem quite so earth-shattering anymore, that decision. Harry couldn't care less what she chose to do, so long as it made her happy. Did it make her happy? He wasn't so sure.

"What else?" he asked, dropping his chin onto her shoulder. He had to ask. In that moment, he had to ask, to know, to learn everything he'd missed. It didn't matter that he'd barely walked through the door, or that they were still hugging as though attempting to conserve body heat.

Hermione sighed heavily, and her breath fluttered against his ear. "What else is there to tell you?"

"Everything."

"Everything?"

"Preferably. All of it, if you could."

Hermione shook against him a little again, and he squeezed her tighter in return. What was it? What had happened that had… that was…?

"Ron and I broke up again," she said.

_Oh. That._

"Probably not forever, but for now. It was a bad one."

_A bad one?_

"And I've just been commissioned to develop a new antimotility potion that doesn't taste so much like shit."

Harry swallowed a darkly amused snort. _Wonderful_.

"And the leading professor of my research troupe has all but demanded I get up and give a speech next Friday afternoon." Hermione's breath hitched at that, and for some reason, it seemed to be the worst revelation of the lot.

Harry drew away from her just enough that he could peer sidelong at her face. "Is it that bad?" he asked, recalling some of the letters he'd received from her.

Hermione's eyes narrowed slightly, less in a glare and more what appeared an attempt to withhold tears. "I suck with people."

Harry smiled slightly. "You don't suck with –"

"I do. I always have, but now I think I've gotten worse, cooping myself up alone all the time."

"I doubt you've –"

"Ginny thinks I might have enochlophobia."

Frowning, Harry tipped his head slightly. "Meaning…?"

"I suck with people and shit myself when I'm in a crowd."

Number twelve Grimmauld Place was dark. It was gloomy. It had too much dust, and breathing sharply filtered much of that dust straight into the lungs. But despite all of that, Harry couldn't quite withhold the urge to laugh. It proceeded into a coughing fit of sorts, but Harry didn't care. A fear of being in crowds... yes, he could understand that. It seemed something that he and Hermione might share, and certainly explanation enough for her closeted residence.

Hermione glared at him at that. She grumbled something beneath her breath before sinking back against him, dropping her cheek onto his shoulder once more. "Don't laugh at me," she muttered.

"Sorry."

"No, you're not."

"No. I'm not."

Hermione sighed, and with that sigh, tension seemed to seep from her body until she sagged against Harry. He let her; she clearly needed it. Evidently, Hermione was going through a lot, and Harry hated himself just a little for not being around to help her through it. With Ron. With her potions, if just to be an ear to bounce off. With the – the people thing, which had always been something of a problem for Hermione but never so much a tangible fear. That Hermione would cuss for emphasis was telling; she never used to swear.

For a long, long moment, they simply stood in silence. There would be more to talk of, more that Harry had to ask Hermione to make sure she was alright and to help fix her if she wasn't. He knew that she would ask him questions too, and he wondered idly what he would say. About his travels. About the people he'd met and the friends he'd made. About the relief he'd found being simply _away_ from it all, yet the heartache he felt at the same time.

About his revelations about himself and who he was, an eye-opening plethora of realisations that could only be fully understood with a little bit of soul-searching. That one was a certainty, because Hermione had all but demanded an explanation for his 'coming to terms with himself' via letter months before.

Funny, that she was so supposedly 'bad' with people and yet so demandingly straight at the same time.

"You're back, then?" Hermione finally said after the pause had congealed in the air like a living entity. "You're here? You're staying?"

There was weight to her words, and one that Harry felt himself sigh for, because he knew he couldn't fulfil the unspoken plea behind them. He'd realised that much as he'd wandered through London, even as the familiar sights tugged at his heart with nostalgia.

"I don't think I could ever stay here, Hermione," he murmured.

Silence met his words. It was watchful, and heavy, and just a little sad. Then Hermione sighed into his shoulder, and somehow Harry heard the understanding in that barest sound. "That's alright, Harry," she murmured. "I don't know if I'm all here so much anymore either."

Her tone, the heaviness of her slump against him, reminded Harry all too much of his own world-weariness. Whether it was the lingering weight of a war years passed or the assault of the new world, he knew that Hermione, at least, understood his exhaustion. When he held onto her more tightly, Hermione squeezed him back just as much, as though he were a buoy keeping her afloat.

That was all they could do, really. Keep afloat until the waves finally passed.


	20. Dudley

~|Fifty-Five Months After the War|~

* * *

People overlooked lorry drivers. They didn't consider that, when they ordered their shit, someone had to deliver it. Those same people forgot about long days and longer nights on open roads, about the isolation of one's own company that was the working conditions of almost every driver. They didn't consider that a radio might become a necessity, a loneliness preventative, providing stimulation for long nights when eyes grew weary but work demanded endurance.

Most people forgot – or they didn't consider at all. If they did, maybe they would have been more lenient of the hulking, looming blockages of a lorry idling in traffic before them, or of the slight, harmless slips that elicited fierce beeps and rude hand waving.

Such dismissal didn't make Dudley Dursley like his job any less. He liked the long hours on the road. He liked the act of driving. He liked the freedom of crossing half of England with a load and knowing that, even if they didn't realise it, people depended upon him.

He even liked the loneliness sometimes; over the years, the reprieve it provided from his parents' home had become relieving. He loved them, but their ministrations, adoration, and blustering affection grew a little smothering at times.

So Dudley liked being a lorry driver. He liked it a lot. What he _didn't_ like so much was when necessity had him stuck in bottleneck traffic in the middle of London, assaulted by honking of horns, and craning his neck to see the distant lights that seemed to have forgotten how to turn green for the utter stasis of the backlog.

Dudley sighed. He slumped back in his seat, throwing his lorry into neutral, and dragging the hand-break on to idle negligibly. He spun the dial on the radio, cranking up the volume, and reached absently for the dregs of the coffee he was still working his way through from his last stop.

Dudley hated London. The sounds were too incessant, people were everywhere, and there was no consideration afforded to transporters just trying to do their jobs. If Dudley had his say, he would suggest the road and maritime services establish set routes only for lorry drivers. That would be an idea. Then he would have to put up with such bullshit.

Propping an elbow on his door, Dudley drew his gaze detachedly out the window. He barely saw the glass-fronted stores, the constantly changing dribble of pedestrians rugged up against the encroaching winter. He noticed but didn't really see the pink flash of a bright scarf, an overly tall man that loomed over his fellows, children clustered around the bus stop all dressed in uniform. As a driver, Dudley had perfected the art of seeing without really seeing. It was practically a part of the job description.

He didn't really see the flash of red when his eyes grazed past it – not _really_ – but he saw the man that stood at the redheaded woman's side. The traffic still wasn't moving, the radio still played, and Dudley still fought to cling to the caffeine he'd inhaled instead of breakfast, but all of that was momentarily secondary. His gaze sharpened, affixing upon the man he hadn't seen in years.

There had been something about a war, Dudley knew. He hadn't asked, but he'd known, because he'd been told in the vaguest way possible that 'stuff was happening'. Dudley could believe it when he stared at the man across the street. There was something about the set of his shoulders, his expression, that bespoke wisening and world-weariness.

Dudley hadn't expected that. Not from Harry Potter.

He looked older, but not necessarily aged. Thinner, but not exactly skinnier. The familiar mess of his hair seemed almost messier, grown out just slightly, and the heavy flop of an overlarge jumper reminded Dudley of when they were kids and Harry had always worn his old clothes.

Dudley wasn't sure what made Harry glance up. Maybe it was his disconcerting magical senses – still disarming, but not so much to Dudley anymore. Or maybe Harry had simply paused in his conversation with the redheaded woman and his eyes were drawn elsewhere.

For whatever reason, Harry's gaze rose, and he locked eyes with Dudley. Across the street, over cars and pedestrians, and through the cacophony of city sounds, they stared at one another. Dudley didn't know what to think. He didn't know what to do, wasn't sure he should do anything, until…

Harry nodded. It wasn't much, just a tip of his head in recognition, but it was something. And Dudley, because it felt right, tipped his own head in acknowledging return.

That was it. After that, Harry turned back to the redheaded woman, and Dudley turned his gaze back to the traffic before him. It took another long hour for him to push through the bottleneck and deliver his load, and it was a little bit annoying, but before the end of the day, Dudley was on the open road again. Just the way he liked it.

Dudley loved his life, and he loved driving lorries. He didn't think all that much of Harry for the rest of the day but, strangely enough, he found himself hoping that Harry was doing something he loved just as much.


	21. Seamus

~|Sixty Months After the War|~

* * *

The invitation was still as starched and pristine as it had been when it arrived in the mail weeks before. It was about the only thing in Seamus and Dean's flat that wasn't at least a little bit stained, a little bit crumpled. Seamus thought it was likely only because it had pinned to the fridge and forcibly forgotten

Seamus stared down at the cursive letters in Susan Bones' calligraphic hand. He saw her occasionally, more frequently than he did others from school, but she hadn't mentioned the invitation since it had arrived. She wouldn't force attendance, because Susan was a loud, jovial, and oftentimes opinionated person, but she wouldn't make demands from those who couldn't provide.

Even so, it almost was an obligation. To turn away from the suggestion, the reunion in memory of those lost, when barely five years still left that memory fresh in the minds of everyone who had survived… It was hard. Returning to Hogwarts was always hard, but it wouldn't be the first time. It wouldn't be the first 'remembrance reunion'. It was only that this one, five years exactly, felt somehow… special. Important. It hurt more.

Seamus sighed. He hadn't considered the invitation because he hadn't wanted to. He hadn't been ready to face it. But now…

_Bloody hell, it's tonight. How did that happen so quickly?_

Lowering his hand and the invitation pinched between his fingers, Seamus turned to the open-plan flat that was little more that an attic-like loft. It had become a homely abode since they'd first moved in, and that homeliness only had a little to do with the Semi-Permanent Heating and Cooling Charms they'd installed without the knowledge of the Muggle landlords. It wasn't because the bakery beneath the flat always breathed rich aromas through the gaps in the floorboards, either.

It was because their loft had become their _place_. His and Dean's. The wall that Dean had painted – the wall he still added to and that they were forced to hide beneath a charm when inspections clocked around – was _theirs._ The shoddy little kitchen that hummed with electronics and the dining table so scarred it looked like a pox-victim was purchased by _them_. The curtain-draped wall of windows, the mismatched couches of their settee, the hulk of a television that always crackled with static for its exposure to magic – it was all theirs, and Seamus loved it. He loved the life he – _they_ – lived and shared, and it was a step beyond the horror of the past.

But sometimes, that past reared its head and demanded recognition. Susan's invitation, sent as much out of necessity, Seamus knew, as because she truly wanted to remember herself, was like a hand latching onto the back of Seamus' shirt that prevented him from taking a giant step away from the past, the war, and all who'd been lost.

_All the people who weren't as lucky as me._

Swallowing down the familiar bitterness of guilt, Seamus strode across the loft. Saturday morning was drab, the thin attempt of sunlight peering through the window barely managing to illuminate the room. Where Dean sprawled on the lumpy bed they shared, he'd trained both of the bedside lamps towards him to illuminate himself like a player on a stage.

Not that he was doing all that much performing. Watching a bloke read a book would have to have been one of the most boring shows Seamus could imagine.

Clambering onto the mattress, Seamus flopped into the blankets at Dean's side. He studied him for a moment, regarding the furrow in his brow that he always got when he read, as though the act of reading itself was troubling. The downward turn of his lips, the tightness of his jaw that bellied the casual limpness of his extended legs and the arm tucked behind his head.

"You never look like you're enjoying yourself when you read," Seamus had told him countless times. "Why do you even bother, like?"

"I do like reading," Dean would always reply. "More now than I used to."

"Shame it's a little late in coming for school days, yeah?"

"I know, right? Shame, that."

That day was no different, but this time Seamus didn't comment. For a moment, bathed in the illumination of artificial lighting and the comfortable familiarity of his bed, he simply watched Dean. He folded his arms under his chin, peering at him sidelong, and waited. The invitation clutched in his hand was far from forgotten, but… he would wait. Besides, he _may_ feel somewhat disinclined to discuss it just yet. Seamus had never claimed he wasn't an avoider.

Finally, it was Dean who broke the silence. He didn't glance away from his book as he did so. "What's up?"

Seamus hummed, kicking his legs idly so they bounced on the mattress. "What d'you mean?"

"You're being quiet."

"So I'm not allowed to be quiet, like?"

Dean's lips twitched slightly in a smile that formed despite his persisting reading-frown. He still studied his book. "Seam, you're many things, but quiet isn't usually one of them."

Seamus huffed indignantly, but couldn't really object to the claim. It was true, after all. He shifted in his recline, flipping the invitation up before him eyes once more and studying it without really seeing it. "Just thinking."

"About?"

"Stuff."

Dean snorted, flipping a page in his book. "Why wouldn't you tell me?"

"Because," Seamus kicked his feet again, "it's not important, like. And I don't want to be just an afterthought when you'd rather read your book."

He wasn't looking at Dean, but he felt his smile widen further. "Alright, you're pissy. What's really bothering you?"

"I'm not pissy."

"You are. Or you're worried. You always get demanding when you're worried."

"Oh, 'cause know so well, like, would you?"

"I'd like to think I know better than most people, yeah. And," Dean paused, shifting in his comfortable slouch a little, "I know that the longer you deflect the more worried you actually are. Or pissy."

"I'm not pissy," Seamus muttered again, and that much, at least, was the truth. But worried? Maybe a little upset? Probably. And he really kind of wanted Dean to put down his book and distract him.

But Seamus wasn't a patient person. Dean would drag himself from his book eventually – he definitely would, and especially when he knew Seamus was being sincere in his unease rather than just petulant – but Seamus didn't want to wait. Fingers crumpling the Susan's invitation slightly, he reached out with his other hand and tugged Dean's book from his hands.

"Oi," Dean protested, though he didn't make a move to stop Seamus. "I was reading that."

"Obviously, like, 'cause you weren't listening to me." Seamus slapped the book down onto the nightstand with more force than necessary.

"You should be gentle with books."

"They're _books_ , Dean."

"Books have feelings too, you know."

"Actually, they don't. _I_ have feelings."

Dean snickered, then abruptly rolled over and flung an arm around Seamus. Seamus grunted, abruptly buried into the mattress, and made an attempt to heave himself free from blankets and boyfriend both. It wasn't much of a struggle; Dean curled around him, pressing a kiss against the side of his neck and hooking a leg around one of Seamus'.

It might have been an awkward position, except that it wasn't. Not for Seamus. Not on that morning when he was feeling… not pissy. Not pissy, but something else.

The weight of Dean right next to him helped. It chased away some of the upwelling grief, the regret, the tide of something that Seamus had studied and unravelled enough over the years to understand was guilt. The anniversary of the battle of Hogwarts – it recurred every year, and almost every year he and Dean attended. Whether it was Susan who planned it and sent out the invitations or someone else entirely, they came.

The one time they hadn't, Seamus had felt so horribly guilty the entire day that it would have been worth visiting Hogwarts in remembrance to avoid the dark cloud that hung over him. The guilt and sadness would have arisen anyway, but it usually withdrew after he'd made his customary, dutiful visit. That year had been a bad idea.

Even so, knowing that it was inevitable they would attend, Seamus wasn't looking forward to the evening. He'd put off thinking about it, and that had helped – until the very morning of the anniversary itself when reality came crashing down upon him. It was a little hard to ignore after that.

Dean approached his own discomfort, his own encroaching grief and sadness for a war that was passed but still felt somehow present, in a different way. He sought distraction. He lost himself in painting their walls, in sketching out plans for his next exhibition, or by diving into books. It worked for him, that escape, and Seamus was selfish for dragging him away from it, but…

The anniversary had arrived. The invitation demanded consideration, and Seamus needed Dean for that.

The weight of Dean pressed against him, sleep-warmed despite the mild spring weather, was comforting. The brush of his skin, the touch of his lips on Seamus' neck once more, the weight of his arm that was so casual yet so practiced that Dean got it placed _precisely_ right each time. It was reassuring, and Seamus needed that. He needed it enough that he would force Dean out of his book for it.

"What's up?" Dean asked again, though it was more of a murmur in Seamus' ear this time.

Seamus twisted towards him. He pursed his lips but didn't directly reply. Instead, he raised the invitation with Susan's cursive script upon it before Dean's eyes.

Dean didn't glance towards. Not even for a second, though Seamus knew he recognised what it was. He met Seamus' gaze instead, his head dropping onto the pillow that Seamus already rested upon, so close Seamus could feel the touch of his breath. His smile faded, any trace of laughter along with it.

"What do you want to do?" he asked quietly.

Seamus shrugged a little awkwardly beneath the weight of Dean's arm. "Dunno. What do you want to do?"

"I asked you first."

"And I asked second, like. So tell me."

Dean's lips twitched, and though it was a telling beginning of a smile, he didn't appear happy. Not at all. Solemnity always arose with the prospect of an evening in the company of other war survivors, other veterans. Years of practice didn't make it any easier.

"You know I don't like going," Dean finally said.

Seamus hummed neutrally. "I know. You know I don't like going either."

"It's Susan who's organised it this year, right?"

"Yeah."

"You reckon everyone else will go?" Dean's face tightened. "Reckon we'll lose more people this year?"

Seamus didn't reply immediately. He turned his face into the pillow, all but smothering himself. It was true that attendees had been lessening each year. Whether it had become too hard for those who'd moved on with their lived to fall back into mourning the past, or because they simply didn't care anymore, Seamus didn't know. He didn't ask. The regulars still came, most of the key players in the war and the final battle, but the others…

Seamus couldn't quite blame them, but he couldn't really agree with them either. Not after he'd done the same once and knew how it felt. The feeling was akin to treachery; the guilt that arose because to miss the anniversary was almost as though he were pretending the whole reason for it hadn't happened. It was as though they were forgetting those who'd died, those who'd had their lives torn apart, and those who wouldn't ever recover because they were in St. Mungo's, or because they'd lost a loved one, or had descended into grief too deeply to claw their way back out of.

That was why Seamus had to go. To make up for those who couldn't anymore – or worse, those who _wouldn't_ – he had to. Even if he hated it as much as the next person because it _hurt_.

"I don't want to think about it, like," Seamus said into his pillow.

"What?"

"They're not doing anything wrong by not coming, exactly, but I still kind of hate them for it."

"Seam, I can't hear what you're –"

"Like with Harry last year. Like, I know he was away, and he has more than enough reason to avoid the place where he bloody-well died and all, but –"

Seamus was abruptly cut off as Dean tugged the pillow out from under his face. He turned, glancing up to where Dean propped himself on his elbow. The other arm, stolen pillow in hand, flopped back down over Seamus' back. "No one would blame you if you didn't want to go."

 _Yes, they would_ , Seamus thought, because he blamed those that didn't just a little bit himself. He knew Dean knew that, too. "Whatever. But what about you, then?"

Dean shrugged with a quirk of his eyebrows rather than a lift of his shoulders. "I don't really care either way."

"Bollocks."

"I don't. Honestly, I don't think it hits me as hard as it does you. I've kind of… learnt how to detach myself from it a bit, I think."

That much was certainly true. Dean was very good at 'detachment' these days. Certainly better than Seamus. Sometimes Seamus didn't like how much he slipped away from the moment; it scared him because he was, just sometimes, a little hard to pull back to the present.

"We've got to go, like," Seamus said with a sigh. "'Specially after Susan went to all that effort."

Dean nodded slowly. Then he flopped down onto the mattress again so that their faces were barely a breath apart once more. "Just for this afternoon," he said, and it sounded like a promise. "It'll just be remembering for the afternoon."

"Yeah. Just for a bit."

"And when we're done, let's go and do something stupid."

Seamus smiled, even if it was a little sadly. "What'd you have in mind, like?"

"Whatever. Anything." Dropping the pillow over the edge of the bed, Dean raised his arm from Seamus' shoulders long enough to pluck the invitation from where Seamus still held it. "Maybe we could invite a couple people out with us. Like Susan. I bet she's pretty knackered after all the organising."

"And where Susan goes, Parvati most likely will too," Seamus said, nodding himself.

"I still can't get over the fact that they actually hooked up in seventh year."

"Really? You can't? Even after five whole bloody years?"

"Shut up," Dean said fondly. "Maybe we could invite Neville, too?"

"Yeah. And maybe Hannah, like, yeah?"

"Ginny and Luna, if they turn up?"

"And Harry, Ron, and Hermione if they make it this year."

It was calming, planning something for afterwards. Something more and beyond the regretful, guilt-flooded afternoon that lay before them. Seamus knew that his guilt, the same guilt that many of the other war survivors felt, was irrational, but he couldn't do anything about it. It helped, though, to be surrounded by those people. Camaraderie in like-mindedness and all of that.

"I have a Phoenix Fyre that I stole from work," Seamus said absently, and the thought of fireworks, of the impressive, awe-inspiring blast of colour and the captivating distraction of it, was comforting in itself. "Maybe we could set if off tonight, like, do you think?"

"Why anyone thought it was a safe idea to let you be a pyrotechnician, I'll never know," Dean said, though he smiled slightly as he did. He didn't protest, either, because it was a distraction, and Dean was good at recognising those.

Seamus closed his eyes, if just for a moment. Peace. Calm. A few seconds of containment and fortification before he convinced himself he was capable of going to Hogwarts that afternoon. Then he opened his eyes, nodded, and he saw from the slight twist in Dean's smile that he'd already known the outcome of Seamus' reluctant disinclination.

"Happy days," Seamus muttered, his own mouth twisting at the irony of it. "We'll makes sure this is a good one, yeah?"

"Happy days," Dean echoed, and it didn't sound any more convincing when Seamus had said it. But that was okay. It was alright. It was just for a day, after all. Some people… some hadn't even survived to have that.

Seamus reminded himself of that fact every single anniversary. It made every other day just a little more special.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hi, everyone! Thanks for reading this chapter!  
> Just as an aside – okay, I hate self-promotions and all that (really, they're so cringeful, and no one really wants to hear them), but if you do happen to like the little insights into Seamus and Dean's future, please feel free to check out 'To Be A Magical Boy', which is basically a full retelling of the series from their POV. These little shorts – they're kind of an epilogue of their tale and written with this story in mind.  
> I'm not sure if that would interest anyone, and it's not necessary for understanding, but complementary. Just thought I'd put it out there.
> 
> Thanks again for reading!


	22. Harry, Hermione, and Ron

~|Sixty-Seven Months After the War|~

* * *

Christmas, for most people, didn't occur solely upon the twenty-fifth of December. It didn't only spread to the twenty-fourth either, nor the twenty-sixth, nor even the entire week.

For many people, Christmas was a monthly event. A two-monthly event, even. When Halloween Jack-o'-lanterns were stowed, fairy lights were strung and the hoarding of gifts in preparation of 'the day' would begin. There would be feasts. There would be laughter. There would be enthusiasm, and love, and an exchange of affection more demonstrative than any other time of the year. For some, a familial dinner was as much a religious tradition church attendance.

Christmas was a celebration, and it was impossible to ignore – in most houses. In most residences, bright lights and wreaths adored doors and windows, Christmas trees stood watchfully in living rooms atop a spread of brightly wrapped gifts, and refrigerators were stuffed to the brim with delicacies. That was how it _should_ have been.

Number twelve Grimmauld Place wasn't like most houses.

There were no fairy lights, though such lights struggled to brighten the drab houses along either side of it. There were no wreaths, no decorations, and no overflowing spread of presents. There was a Christmas tree, but it looked jarringly uncomfortable, propped as it was in the corner of the living room beneath a thin tinsel draping. And the food? Well, there was a spread, but it wasn't particularly special. A certain house elf's baking vigour made banquets a commonality.

Number twelve didn't celebrate Christmas that year like every other house in its street and beyond. It wasn't because its residents vacated the premises to celebrate in a different house, either – or it wasn't that year. Rather, the spirit of Christmas seemed to have been… overlooked.

The three would-be celebrants that dwelled within on Christmas morning didn't appear to notice. Not that year. That year, Christmas meant something different. And after Christmas, life would never be the same again.

* * *

It probably wasn't wise to drink Firewhisky so early in the morning, but Ron didn't really care. He was on his holidays anyway; he might as well make the most of it.

Taking a swig from his glass, he settled back into his dusty old armchair. It was one of several in the room, each turned in the vague direction of the fireplace that crackled in a useless attempt to drive away the chill and frost at the window. That uselessness was not because of its lack of warmth, though it emitted little enough, but because the house was lathered with so many Warming Charms that the winter cold didn't stand a chance.

Not that such charms made it homely. Not in Ron's opinion. Even after years and the experiences he'd had within its walls, Grimmauld Place would never be welcoming. Even less so because his friends… they weren't quite as they had been in the years it would have been more bearable.

Taking another swig of his whisky, Ron glanced across the room to where Harry and Hermione sat in their own armchairs. They nursed their own drinks, and Ron supposed what they partook of was sort of telling. Hermione sipped from a tumbler of vodka that could have been mistaken for water for her casualness, seeming to have little impact upon her senses, while Harry had his hands curled around a cooling mug of coffee. He always drunk coffee in the morning, Ron had only recently realised. It was commonplace, that habit, as though the forgotten Christmas morning wasn't anything all that special.

Maybe it wasn't. Maybe his friends really didn't think it was.

They'd both changed since the war, Ron knew. Over the years, all of them had changed, but sitting in the gloomy old living room with the two people who were – had been? – Ron's two best friends for half his life, he was made startlingly aware of that fact. How hadn't he noticed just how much they'd changed? When had it even happened?

Hermione was curled into her armchair, knees to chest and arms locked around her legs as though to hold herself together. Her hair was chopped short but otherwise largely neglected, and her expression was introspective. She was smart, Hermione; always had been. Ron supposed that her introspection was a product of incessantly thinking about her work. Studying, inventing, mixing potions, hypothesising new brews – it had become Hermione's life in a way that was entirely unexpected to Ron. He would _never_ have picked her to be a Brewer from their schooling days. Not with Snape as her professor.

Hermione was quieter. More contained. She didn't snap and hiss at interruptions to her thoughts as much as she had done only a few years ago, but in some ways, Ron liked her quietness even less. He couldn't read her, couldn't understand what went on inside her head besides that she was 'thinking'.

He supposed that was probably why they were 'off' more than 'on' these days.

At her side, Harry was similarly silent. He'd never been an over-loud person, never talked much unless he had something specific to say. In school, since their first year, Harry had changed and grown more confident in speaking his thoughts. Hindsight recognised that change as Ron hadn't appreciated at the time. But since then… Whether it was the war or the publicity that followed, being hounded by reporters and adoring fans or the months he'd spent holidaying overseas in an attempt to escape from all of that, Harry was quieter. More subdued. More introspective, too.

He acted differently. Looked a little different. Ron hadn't even noticed until he sat and really studied Harry that he had even changed at all. He'd never been a big bloke, but he seemed smaller. Thinner, and it was evident even through the oversized jumper he wore. His hair had grown out a little bit, and he was – wait, were those new glasses? When had Harry gotten new glasses?

Ron swallowed another gulp from his glass. It stung on the way down, but only half because of the whiskey itself. As he sat and studied his friends, Ron realised in a stupor how much they'd both changed. They saw little enough of one another these days, pursuing their own lives as they did, but he hadn't realised just how much he'd missed.

 _We're drifting apart_ , Ron though, and a weight lodged in his throat that he didn't know how to rid himself of it. _Bloody hell, I never thought this would happen. I never_ wanted _it to happen, but… we really are drifting apart_.

So much for the Christmas spirit.

Struggling to shake free of his melancholy, Ron sat forwards in his seat a little. He propped his elbows on his knees, dangling his glass between his hands. For a moment, he fumbled unsuccessfully for something to say, for if someone was going to break the silence then it would have to be him. Hermione didn't usually talk unless spoken to, and Harry seemed to follow her unspoken suggestion more often than not.

Ron swallowed again. "So," he said, voice low and just a little hoarse. Another swallow helped only a little. "Plans?"

Harry glanced towards him. "For?"

"For Christmas," Ron said. "You know Mum would love to see you both."

Harry nodded slowly. "Yeah. Sorry, I completely forgot to RSVP."

Ron shrugged. "Don't sweat it. I forgot too."

Harry smiled, though it was only small. "Yeah, well, you're her kid. I don't think you really have let your parents know when you're coming to the Burrow. Besides, you're busy with work. That's a valid excuse that I don't really have."

There were a number of problems Ron had with Harry's statement: that he still seemed to overlook that he was considered as much a Weasley as Ron was himself. That he considered Ron busier than himself, though half of the time, when Ron visited, Kreacher told him that Harry was 'busy'. That he hadn't said he _would_ come to the Burrow, even thought Ron had asked.

But Ron didn't mention such things. It was Harry's way of saying he didn't want to – which kind of sucked, but Ron had half expected it. He nodded his understanding rather than in agreement with Harry's words, glancing instead towards Hermione. "What about you, Hermione? You coming?"

Hermione took a contemplative sip of her vodka, her gaze trained upon the fireplace. "I wouldn't want to impose," she murmured.

"You wouldn't be imposing. You've been invited for years." E _ven if you haven't come for the last two._ The words were silenced just before Ron uttered them, and he was grateful that his tongue had learnt when to stop for _that_ , at least.

Hermione hummed thoughtfully. "It's very kind of you, and your mum, but… I think I'm just going to stay in."

"To celebrate?"

"Something like that, I guess."

Her tone didn't leave Ron with much confidence that there would be a whole lot of celebrating. _We really are drifting apart_ , he thought, and that painful twinge struck him once more.

Ron cleared his throat, thrusting the thought aside. "Ah, well. Whatever you'd like. I'll probably head over tonight if either of you decide to change your minds."

"Thanks," Harry said, and Hermione murmured a similar affirmative.

And they fell back into silence. That silence was made all the more uncomfortable given Ron's revelation – or it was for him. Hermione and Harry didn't seem all that uncomfortable.

Fiddling awkwardly with his glass, Ron struggled to shrug the melancholic weight off his shoulders once more. "We should do this more often," he said, even if the thought of sitting in silence was far from appealing.

Harry cocked his head questioningly, and even Hermione finally turned towards him. "Do what?" she asked.

"This." Ron nodded, gesturing vaguely between the three of them. "We don't catch up enough."

"You're right," Harry murmured.

"I feel like I hardly see you guys anymore. Never thought that would happen."

"You're busy," Harry said with a shrug. "Hermione's busy, too. Up and coming Auror Captains and masters-in-training can't always spare time for the small stuff."

Ron smiled at the offhanded compliment, though it tugged at something in his chest. That something had been drifting on the edges of his thoughts for days, and Ron had almost forgotten that he hadn't told Harry and Hermione yet. Almost.

 _It might put a bit of a dampener on our 'catching up more'_ _thing,_ he thought a little sadly. It was regretful in its unavoidability, even if Ron was the only person responsible for it. Clearing his throat again, that weight firmly lodged no matter how he tried to shake it, Ron squeezed his glass.

"Speaking of which," he said slowly. "I'm, ah – I'm getting promoted."

For an extended beat, neither Harry nor Hermione replied. Then Hermione abruptly straightened from her coiled hunch and Harry uttered a huff of surprised laughter. "Really? Congrats, mate. That's fantastic."

"Yeah," Ron said, attempting a smile for the both of them who finally, _finally_ looked a little bit as happy as they should be on Christmas morning. "Yeah, it really is. Only…"

"Only?" Hermione asked.

"Only it means I'll be moving away for a while." Ron lowered his gaze. "We might have to put a rain check on those catch ups."

* * *

Hermione stared across the room towards Ron. He leant forwards, elbows on his knees, and regarded his half-finished glass of Firewhisky with an intensity that bespoke deliberately avoiding looking elsewhere. For the first time in hours, Hermione fully drew herself from the distraction of her thoughts.

Ron was… going away? He was leaving?

"Where will you be going?" she asked stiltedly.

"Where will you be based?" Harry added, as though clarifying her words.

Ron shifted a little in his seat. He'd grown into a big man; always tall, the life of an Auror had shed some of his gangly lankiness that Hermione hadn't even though he _could_ shed. He'd filled out, broadened, and he seemed more comfortable in his skin than he had in...

In ever? Was that possible?

Ron had never been a confident person. Quite the opposite, in fact; he'd seriously lacked confidence in his younger years. It was something that had always frustrated Hermione, something that she couldn't understand, regardless of how many times Ron explained that, "When you grow up in a house full of brothers and sisters all practically competing with you for every bloody thing, it kind of wears on you."

Hermione couldn't understand that. She'd never had a family like Ron's.

That lack of confidence had faded, it seemed, and Hermione abruptly realised she hadn't noticed the moment it had retreated into nothingness. Hermione was a studier, an observer, and it was part of the reason she'd decided to pursue experimental potioneering in the first place. But a studier of _people_?

Hermione wasn't so good with people. She'd never been much of a people person, and that 'not much' had retreated into 'not at all' over the years. Even so, that she hadn't noticed how Ron had changed was more than a little sad.

 _We really are breaking up,_ she thought, and it had nothing to do with their romantic relationship. They'd 'broken up' and gotten back together countless times, but this… It felt different.

"I'm headed north," Ron said. "Up Manchester way. The DMLE is bigger in London, but there's less job opportunities, so it's either move to climb up that good ol' career ladder or stay stuck in the spot I've been for months."

"I thought you liked being deputy on your team," Hermione said quietly, fingers tightening around her tumbler.

"I do," Ron said, readily enough that it had to be true. He raised his gaze to meet her own. "But it doesn't feel like it's enough anymore."

Hermione stared at him for a long moment. She didn't know what to say. Should she congratulate him like Harry had? Support him in his decision to move and gush about what a grand opportunity it was for him, that he deserved it, and that he would definitely make something of himself and the team he would be placed at the head of?

It was all true, and Hermione believed it, but she couldn't say it. She'd grown far less competent with verbalisation over the years, though specifically in a social context. Speaking of potions or studies was easy enough, so long as it wasn't in a lecture or auditorium. Feelings, though? She wasn't so good with those. Not anymore. Hermione wasn't sure – couldn't remember – if she'd ever been.

"I –" she began, and had to take a fortifying sip of her vodka. It sent tingles across her tongue. "I'll miss you, Ron."

Ron smiled crookedly. "Yeah, well. It's not forever, I'm sure. And even though... I mean, work's always crazy, and it will be even crazier when I'm a captain of my own team, but I'll still be able to come down to visit sometimes." He chuckled quietly beneath his breath. "You can't get rid of me that easily, you know. I'll still come to see you."

"Even if I move to Berlin?"

The words were out of Hermione's mouth before she made the conscious thought to voice them. That happened sometimes these days. Hours alone in her lab and an absence of talking for sometimes days on end made slips arise like word vomit more often than Hermione was comfortable with.

She folded her lips as Ron started, jerking straight in his seat. At her side, Harry straightened too, if a little more slowly. She glanced between the two of them, between her two closest friends who had both changed so much since she'd first met them, and pressed her lips together even more firmly.

"What?" Ron asked blankly.

"Hermione, you…" Harry leant towards her a little bit, tilting his head with a curious frown. "No way. Did Professor Köhler offer you a spot?"

"What's this?" Ron said, voice rising.

Hermione nodded at Harry, and he offered her a delighted smile. She glanced back towards Ron, who was flicking his gaze between them with steadily widening eyes. "I've been looking for a professor to study my PhD under for the last few months, but none that have been willing to take me have quite seemed to… fit."

"What?" Ron said again, and Hermione didn't think he even realised he spoke.

"Professor Köhler, though," Hermione hunched her shoulders to her ears, sinking into the warmth that coiled in her gut with a flutter of excitement. "He's incredible. One of the leading names in experimental potioneering in Europe. Getting an offer from him – it's nigh impossible."

"But you managed," Harry said quietly. He reached a hand towards her, squeezing her shoulder in a tight grasp. "I knew you would."

"No you didn't," Hermione said. "Even _I_ didn't know I'd get it."

"Only because you lack confidence in yourself."

" _I'm_ the one lacking confidence in myself?"

Harry's lips tugged downwards a little self-deprecatingly. "Don't try and deflect this conversation back onto me. Congratulations, Hermione. You deserve it."

"Thanks," Hermione said, the warmth blossoming in her belly spreading to her toes.

"What the…"

At Ron's words, Hermione turned towards him once more. He was still glancing between she and Harry, a slight frown between his brows, though it seemed more in confusion than any kind of anger. There was maybe a little sadness thrown in, and just a touch of…

Regret? Hermione was an observer, and she thought she perceived the emotion, but she couldn't quite understand it. Or at least she couldn't until Ron continued. "How come Harry knew but I had no idea that you were even looking for a professor, let alone who this Köhler bloke is?"

Hermione shrugged beneath Harry's hand. "You've been busy, Ron."

"You're right that we don't see all that much of you anymore," Harry added.

"But you guys see so much of each other?" Ron asked, then cut himself off for the obvious reply that presented itself. Of course Hermione and Harry saw more of one another. They lived together, had been living together for years. Ron had found his own flat when Grimmauld Place became too confining for him in its unshakeable gloominess, and easily supported himself on his Auror's wage. It was only to be expected that they saw less of him.

Not that Hermione and Harry really saw all that much of one another. They shared meals sometimes, but it was just as likely that Hermione would go for days on end without catching a glimpse of him. She could often loose herself in her lab, the upstairs room that she'd assimilated becoming her experimental quarters of sorts, and it was likely only Kreacher's intermittent deliveries of snacks that kept her alive. What Harry did…

What Harry did most of the time, Hermione didn't even know except to understand that he busied himself. Startlingly, she realised that she hadn't a clue. When they spoke, he'd never… he'd never really…

"Not that much," Hermione replied to Ron's words, though she regarded Harry instead. "We don't see much of one another at all, really. Harry, will you…?"

Harry tipped his head questioningly, finally dropping his hand from her shoulder. "Will I what?"

"When I'm gone to Berlin in February –"

"February?" Ron repeated lowly.

"And Ron leaves for Manchester – when do you leave, Ron?"

Ron still glanced between them again, his glass hanging forgotten from his fingers. "Mid January," he said, seeming to speak almost unconsciously. "Two weeks after the holidays end."

A twinge abruptly erupted in Hermione's belly, swallowing the warmth, and she had to mentally chide herself. _You can't be so upset that he's leaving when you'll be leaving too only a few weeks later_. Instead of commenting, though it took an effort to drag her gaze from Ron, Hermione turned back to Harry. "What will you do, when we've both moved away?"

Harry raised a hand to scuff at the back of his head. He smiled a little ruefully. "Funny you should say that, because I've been thinking..."

* * *

Silence met his words when he finally paused.

Harry fiddled with the mug in his hands, its half-finished contents already mostly cooled. He didn't think his revelation was any more profound than Ron's had been, or Hermione's, and likely even less because he'd been the one to travel frequently over the past years.

But they stared at him as though stupefied. "You're going to America?" Ron said slowly.

Harry nodded.

"But… when did you decide this?" Hermione asked.

Shrugging, Harry turned his gaze down to his mug. "I didn't decide it so much as it just sort of fell into my lap. I'm not sure if I mentioned to you both about Frank? The American guy I met in Spain when I was away?"

"Was he the one who…?" Ron trailed off.

Harry nodded, hearing the unspoken understanding. He'd only told his friends about Frank once, but he knew he'd spoken of him fondly. He and Frank had been… close. Closer than Harry had been to anyone beside Hermione and Ron in years. In ever, maybe.

"Yeah, well, Frank called me up a couple of weeks ago and asked if I wanted to come visit him. He said he's had a chat to this friend of his who's opened a bakery recently and is looking for a baker to lend a hand for a while, so…"

"You said yes?" Hermione asked, almost at the same time that Ron said, "Baker? Wait, so then you're really doing this thing?"

'This thing' was something that had been growing on Harry for years. 'This thing' had been a hobby that grew into something more, a delight that became a passion, and 'this thing' had been one of the few things that had keep Harry occupied – and sane – since he'd returned to London from his travels.

London felt too small for him now. Or... no, that wasn't quite right. It felt too cluttered. There was too much happening and not enough actually getting done. Too many people, and not enough _life_ behind those people. They went to work, they came home. They spent their wages on bills, and groceries, and partying every other Friday. They bought a nice house, found a nice partner, and built nice families. Not all of them, of course, and two such individuals that denied fitting the mould sat alongside him, but it was enough to be noticed. Enough to be a little smothering.

Harry wanted more than that. He wanted to build something else, something that went beyond the speculations that still arose in the _Daily Prophet_ on a cyclical basis. 'Where Is Harry Potter Now?' and 'The Boy Who Lived, Finally Decided To Settle Down?'

London and England would always be Harry's home, but it just didn't feel like enough anymore. Not right now. Baking was something that Harry had embraced, an unexpected something that he wouldn't have even considered years ago and likely wouldn't have pursued if not for his travels and the discovery of so many glorious cuisines and patisseries along the way. Hermione's surprise wasn't unexpected as she rarely saw him bake, and neither was Ron's, for he knew little more of Harry's kindled passion than that it was 'a thing'.

But it was. It had become a _big_ thing. And Harry was going to America to pursue it.

"I said yes," Harry replied to both of his friends. "And yeah, it's a thing, Ron. I'll be leaving in the new year."

More silence met his words. It hung in the air between them like a tangible force. Harry stared down at his mug of coffee, swirling it gently, and he didn't need to glance towards Ron to know he was doing the same with his whiskey, or that Hermione was rocking her vodka back and forth in its tumbler.

It didn't feel much like Christmas. Not really. Harry hadn't known how Christmas was supposed to feel when he was younger, but the Weasleys had shown him, and he knew better now. This wasn't Christmas. This felt somehow sad.

Harry was happy that Ron was getting promoted, because his friend deserved it. He worked damn hard for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and he was good at what he did. He'd grown into an Auror that would be capable of leading his own team in a way that Harry knew his younger self would never have thought possible but would have given anything to attempt.

And it was a little sad that he was leaving.

Hermione being chosen by her professor in Berlin was wonderful news, and she deserved it, too. She was more committed to her studies than anyone Harry had ever met, dedicating hours on end and sacrificing sleep and a life outside of her lab in pursuit of experimentation. She was a scholar as her younger self had only dabbled in becoming, and it was incredible to witness her commitment.

But it was still sad that she would be leaving.

And Harry – he wanted to leave London again. It hurt to consider, to contemplate leaving England behind once more, but he wanted to. He needed to. He would return, he knew, because being away from English soil for too long festered an ache within him that he couldn't help but notice, but he would leave for a time. He had to escape again, and the offer of America, of the bakery that was becoming increasingly appealing to him with every hour he spent stealing the kitchen from Kreacher, was too good to reject.

But it was sad. Really sad. Because it might only be a couple of Portkeys away, but Harry would miss his friends. Exchanging letters wasn't quite the same.

"It might sound stupid," Ron said quietly, "because I know it's not true, but… does it kind of feel like we're saying goodbye?"

At his side, Harry saw Hermione hunch slightly upon herself again. He swallowed, shaking his head, even if he did agree with Ron's words more than he would have liked. "Nothing quite so final as that, Ron. I promise."

"Right," Hermione said, her voice cracking a little. "It's not going to be forever."

"'Course not," Ron said, shaking his head. "Silly thought, I know. I'm probably just getting sentimental."

"You? Sentimental?" Harry smiled, hoping he hid his own upwelling of sentimentality. "Never."

"Hey, I resent that," Ron said, though he smiled too. Harry didn't mention the touch of sadness he could see behind it.

"I resent that you think we're not all capable of maintaining a long-distance friendship," Hermione said. "I have more faith in us."

"Alright, alright, no need to get snotty," Ron said, raising a placating hand as though to ward off an attack. His smile widened a little further, however, and Harry felt his own follow suit.

"It's just for a while."

"Yeah, just for a while."

"And we'll visit each other, for sure."

"Definitely."

"You'll have to both come and meet my new team at some point. You know, after I meet them myself."

"And you two will have to come and visit the university. Even you haven't been to Germany yet, Harry."

"How dare you visit before me. Does that mean that you'll both come and visit me in the US, then?"

Ron and Hermione both pulled faces before catching sight of one another and dissolving into snickers. For a moment, melancholy was forgotten. It almost felt like old times, like when they were children. Before the war, and before they'd become adults without the directing confines of school and a madman out for Harry's blood.

It was nice. Just for a moment, it was nice, and Harry could forget that Ron had been right and that it really did feel a little like goodbye.

He grasped that moment, and in a sudden decision, raised his coffee mug into the space between the three of them. "To catching up in the future," he said.

"Definitely," Hermione agreed, immediately raising her tumbler.

"Maybe we could make this a tradition?" Ron said, lifting his glass into the air. "A Christmas catch up."

"I could handle that."

"Sounds like a good idea to me."

They clinked classes. It was a little comical, maybe – a cooled mug of coffee, a half-empty glass of whiskey, and a tumbler all but empty of vodka – but the clink felt somehow merry to Harry. It was all a little sad, maybe, but this…

He might not see his friends for a time, and they might drift apart a little, but at least Harry still had this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you again for reading. Does this feel like the end? Sort of. And probably because it mostly is. I've got one more chapter waiting just around the corner, and I'll post that in a few days at the most. Thank you for persisting with this read!
> 
> And also… you know how I said only just last chapter that I hate self-promotions? Yeah, well, I'm partaking again. Sorry about that, and I really do feel a bit guilty for doing so, but if you're interested in seeing what goes on for Harry after this, please, you're more than welcome to find out! I've just started posted a new story called 'Salty Sweet' that follows what happens to him a little bit after this and was very much what inspired the route of Harry's story in this piece. Feel no obligation – it's merely an utterly shameful suggestion on my part.
> 
> Thanks again for reading!


	23. Minerva

 ~|Ten Years After the War|~

* * *

The yawning expanse of the Great Hall of Hogwarts lay barren and empty in the heat of summer. Through the filter of the stained glass windows, colours danced across stone floors, painting a mosaic upon the empty tables that, in months to come, would sit a myriad of children, of students, of platters steaming and cutlery clinking.

But not then. Not at that moment. In summer, few but the ghosts of Hogwarts wandered its halls and added their lonesome, disconsolate voices to the comfortable groans of the castle itself. Rarely did one such ghost enter the Great Hall in the absence of students; ghosts typically haunted the place of their death, but when not, they drew towards the sounds of life and warmth like a moth drawn to flame. The holidays promised little such warmth from animated students, so the Great Hall remained empty.

Of all but one.

The ghost was young. A young man, in out-dated school robes and hair perfectly groomed. He stood in the very centre of the room, gazing upon the emptiness with detached eyes that didn't blink. Emotionless, or perhaps it was listless? Few who beheld the ghost of Tom Riddle could decide which. Few even cared to bother deciding at all.

Once, the youth who had been Lord Voldemort had inspired fear into the students that returned for their tutelage. Once, on the day of his first appearance, screams of terror had split the air and children had fled the wraith that had once haunted their world as a living monster.

But no longer. It was impossible to hate a ghost who never talked. It was impossible to fear a ghost who barely moved, who stared with disinterest, who arose only sporadically and at times with months between such appearances. It was impossible to maintain such lingering wariness after Headmistress McGonagall spoke.

"He is but a shadow, and barely even a true ghost. His soul was torn to shreds and there is little remaining to produce even an echo of who he was. Do not fear him; pity the monster who clung so fiercely to life that he couldn't move on."

So they pitied. Some even grew to regret, though not by much. And Tom Riddle remained in the Great Hall, silent, staring, and listless. When he moved it was only slightly, and often to simply stare down to his feet at the exact point that Voldemort had fallen in defeat years before.

Tom Riddle was a shadow. He was an echo. He was a being worthy of little besides pity and hardly even that. First year students still stared with wide eyes and open incredulity when they learned the nature of his existence and who he was but not fear. Not anymore.

In that empty hall, through the hollow corridors and the gaping Entrance Hall, none but the ghosts moved. Or none – except for particular members of the staff that exhibited more dedication to school and tutelage than was entirely necessary over the summer break. Minerva McGonagall strode through that Entrance Hall, a trail of books, parchments and quills drifting behind her, squinting down through failing eyes upon the list in her hands.

"… have to discuss with Filius…" she murmured to herself, then shook her head. She didn't _really_ need to discuss anything. Interviewing new candidates for the position of Charms professor shouldn't necessitate the involvement of its predecessor. But even so…

Maybe she should. He would know whom best to inherit from him, surely.

As she passed the open doors of the Great Hall, Minerva paused. She glanced up from her list, directly ahead of herself, and for a moment couldn't even determine what had drawn her to a pause. The Entrance Hall was empty, the walls bare, floors untouched by footprints, and barely even the colourful trickle of light spilling from the Great Hall offered a break in that consistent emptiness. But Minerva paused, because she felt him, and she turned almost expectantly towards the Great Hall.

Tom Riddle stood as he always did at the very centre of the hall, staring at his feet. His young face, his unblinking eyes, the unchanging set of his shoulders – all the same. Minerva shook her head slightly; she'd never met the boy in life, but she recognised him now. It was impossible not to after years of his strange version of haunting.

No fear. No wariness. Not even pity arose within Minerva. Instead, she drew her wand from her pocket and pointed it at the fragment of the soul that had once been Lord Voldemort.

"Begone, boy," she said, and threw a spell to vanquish the ghost.

He disappeared in a flicker. Without even a glance towards Minerva, Tom Riddle was gone. The Great Hall, empty in his absence, sighed slightly as it settled itself more comfortably.

Minerva turned from the hall. She felt no satisfaction for her necessary vanquishing. She felt no sadness, no sympathy, no… nothing. It was simply one more duty she held as the headmistress of Hogwarts.

Lord Voldemort was gone, and Tom Riddle's ghost was no threat. Minerva strode away from the Great Hall, and within moments, she forgot about him entirely. Which was exactly how it should be.

~|The End|~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you all, dear readers, for taking the time to read this story! And to my wonderful commenters - Jeldenil, you're an angel, and thank you so, so much for picking up this story as well and commenting as you have done. It's more support and encouragement than I could even describe. Hugs and adoration are to be sent your way.  
> But really, thank you everyone who's taken the time to read this story. I hope you liked it!


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